- 


22^> 


University  of  California  •  Berkeley 

From  the  Library  of 

Charles  Erskine  Scott  Wood 

and  his  Wife 

Sara  Bard  Field 

Given  in  Memory  of 

JAMES  R.CALDWELL 


PROSE  PIECES 

BY  ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

Hitherto  Unpublished 


Copyright,  1921,  by 

THE    BIBLIOPHILE    SOCIETY 

ALL  RIGHTS   RESERVED 


THE  STEVENSON  MANUSCRIPTS 

At  the  time  when  the  great  mass  of  manu- 
scripts, books,  and  other  personal  belongings 
of  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  were  dispersed 
through  a  New  York  auction  room  in  Novem- 
ber 1914,  and  January  1915,  the  whole  of 
civilization  was  being  shaken  to  its  very  foun- 
dations, and  the  exigencies  of  the  times  were 
such  that  people  were  concerned  with  more 
important  matters  than  the  acquisition  of 
manuscripts  and  relics.  Therefore  the  sale, 
which  in  ordinary  times  would  have  attracted 
widespread  attention  among  editors,  critics, 
publishers  and  collectors,  went  comparatively 
unnoticed  amid  the  general  clamor  and  ap- 
prehension of  the  time.  There  was,  however, 
one  vigilant  Stevenson  collector,  in  the  person 
of  Mr.  Francis  S.  Peabody,  who  bought  a 
large  part  of  the  unpublished  manuscripts  at 
the    sale,    and   has   since   acquired   most   of 

[  i  ] 


the  remainder  which  went  chiefly  to  various 
dealers.  Mr.  Peabody  has  generously  offered 
to  share  the  enjoyment  of  his  Stevenson  treas- 
ures with  his  fellow  bibliophiles,  and  we  are 
indebted  to  him  for  the  privilege  of  issuing 
the  first  printed  edition  of  many  precious 
items,  without  which  no  collection  of  Steven- 
soniana  can  ever  be  regarded  as  being  com- 
plete. 

It  will  be  remembered  that  the  last  years 
of  Stevenson's  life  were  spent  at  Samoa, 
which  became  the  only  permanent  home  of 
his  married  life,  where  he  kept  his  great  col- 
lection of  manuscripts  and  note  books,  the 
accumulation  of  his  twenty-odd  years  of 
work;  and  where,  being  far  removed  from  the 
centers  of  civilization,  he  came  very  little  in 
contact  with  editors  or  publishers  who,  dur- 
ing his  lifetime  or  subsequently,  would  have 
been  interested  in  ransacking  his  chests  for 
new  material.  When  his  personal  effects  were 
finally  packed  up  and  shipped  to  the  United 
States  they  were  sent  to  the  auction  room 
and  disposed  of  for  ready  cash,  and  thereafter 
it  became  impossible  for  publishers  to  acquire 
either  the  possession  or  the  publication  rights 

[ii  ] 


of  the  manuscript  without  great  expense  and 
inconvenience. 

From  events  that  have  transpired  since  the 
publication  in  191 6  of  the  two-volume  Bib- 
liophile edition  of  Stevenson's  unpublished 
poems,  we  are  led  to  believe  that  the  literary 
importance  of  the  manuscripts  was  not  appre- 
ciated by  the  Stevenson  heirs.  It  is  neither 
necesssary  nor  advisable  to  comment  or  specu- 
late further  upon  the  circumstances  which  led 
to  the  sale  of  the  manuscripts  before  being 
published ;  whatever  they  may  have  been,  they 
are  of  far  less  importance  to  the  public  than 
the  established  fact  that  the  manuscripts  were 
dispersed  before  being  transcribed  or  pub- 
lished, and  the  further  fact  that  they  ulti- 
mately came  into  the  possession  of  an  owner 
who  now  permits  them  to  be  printed. 

If  it  be  regrettable  that  the  distribution  of 
the  present  edition,  in  which  there  is  des- 
tined to  be  a  world-wide  interest,  is  confined 
to  the  relatively  limited  membership  of  a  book 
club,  the  circumstances  are  made  inevitable 
by  certain  fundamental  rules,  without  which 
no  cohesive  body  of  booklovers  can  long  exist. 
And  these   restrictive   measures   are  not  in- 

[  itf  ] 


spired  by  selfish  motives,  but  purely  as  a 
matter  of  necessity  in  preserving  the  organ- 
ization. 

Some  of  the  manuscripts  printed  in  the  four 
separate  volumes  now  issued  were  not  avail- 
able at  the  time  when  the  two-volume  edition 
was  brought  out  by  The  Bibliophile  Society 
in  1 916,  and  it  was  thought  best  to  defer  their 
publication  until  such  time  as  we  could  bring 
together  the  major  part  of  the  remaining  in- 
edited  material,  which  we  believe  has  now 
been  accomplished. 

The  notes  in  this  volume  signed  G.  S.  H.  are 
by  Mr.  George  S.  Hellman.  The  remainder 
are  by  the  editor. 

H.  H.  H. 


[  iv] 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

There  is  probably  not  a  more  universally 
interesting  figure  among  recent  men  of  letters 
than  Robert  Louis  Stevenson.  It  is  certain 
that  no  classic  writer  of  modern  times  has 
made  a  more  direct  appeal  to  the  hearts  of  his 
readers.  He  was  a  logical  thinker,  an  alert, 
wide-range  observer,  an  extensive  traveler,  a 
sympathetic,  warm-hearted  friend  of  human- 
ity, a  genial  host,  a  thorough  master  of 
English  composition,  and  a  prodigious  worker. 

[7] 


He  wrote  poetry,  novels,  short  stories,  technical 
and  ethical  essays,  dramas,  fables,  prayers,  ser- 
mons, tales  of  adventure,  literary  criticism, 
history  and  biography;  and  he  was  withal  one 
of  the  most  entertaining  and  self-revealing  let- 
ter-writers of  the  nineteenth  century.  And  if 
in  any  or  all  of  these  branches  of  literature  he 
failed  to  attain  the  greatest  heights  he  at  least 
wrote  with  exceptional  vividness  and  compre- 
hension. Indeed  his  collected  works  cover 
such  a  wide  range  of  subject-matter  that  they 
constitute  a  veritable  library  in  themselves, 
suited  equally  to  man,  woman  or  child,  of 
whatever  creed,  nationality  or  station  in  life. 
Little  wonder  that  within  a  few  years  from  the 
time  when  he  passed  quietly  away  in  his 
Samoan  retreat  his  name  became  a  household 
word  wherever  the  English  language  is 
known.  For  more  than  twenty  years  it  has 
been  one  of  the  foremost  ambitions  of  college 
freshmen  to  acquire  a  set  of  "Stevenson,"  and 
in  thousands  of  dormitories  throughout  the 
land  his  works  are  to  be  found  reposing  in  a 
little  bookcase  conveniently  near  the  reading 
lamp.  It  is  safe  to  say  that  in  this  way  Steven- 
son's writings   have   formed   the  nucleus  of 

[8] 


more  private  libraries  than  have  the  works  of 
any  other  writer  of  modern  times. 

Stevenson,  although  of  spare  physique, — 
and  an  invalid  nearly  all  his  days,  from  early 
childhood,  —  was  widely  famed  for  his  mag- 
netic personality,  with  which  he  at  once  cap- 
tivated nearly  everyone  with  whom  he  came  in 
contact;  and  his  wide  and  ever  increasing 
circle  of  admirers  is  in  large  measure  due  to 
his  remarkable  faculty  for  transmitting  his 
engaging  personality  to  the  reader  through  the 
medium  of  his  writings.  To  be  endowed  with 
a  nature  of  such  singular  charm  and  forceful- 
ness,  in  combination  with  a  marked  aptitude 
for  instilling  it  into  his  works,  as  if  the  very 
blood  from  his  veins  flowed  in  the  ink  from 
his  pen,  is  an  attribute  with  which  but  few 
writers  are  gifted ;  yet  Stevenson  possessed  this 
in  such  an  eminent  degree  that  his  readers 
come  to  know  and  esteem  the  man  no  less  than 
they  do  his  works,  —  not  because  of  any  in- 
spired sympathy  for  his  emaciated  physical 
condition,  but  because  of  his  mental  vigor,  his 
cheerfulness,  and  his  undauntable  heroism  in 
battling  with  life's  adversities. 

His  body  and  mind  were  continually  racked 

[9] 


and  torn  by  hemorrhages,  prolonged  fits  of 
coughing,  internal  congestions,  fever,  chills 
and  ague,  indigestion,  influenza,  insomnia, 
nightmares  and  other  attendant  and  constantly 
recurrent  ills,  and  work  begun  during  short 
intermissions  of  convalescence  or  temporarily 
restored  health  was  oftentimes  broken  off 
abruptly  by  another  long  period  of  physical 
prostration.  With  some  one,  or  more,  of  these 
ailments  almost  constantly  besetting  him  it  is 
not  to  be  wondered  at,  that  at  the  age  of  thirty- 
seven  he  wrote  that  "old  age  with  his  stealing 
steps  seems  to  have  clawed  me  in  his  clutch  to 
some  tune,"  and  that  he  considered  himself  an 
old  man  at  forty.  Literally  dozens  of  times  he 
had  hung  over  the  brink  of  the  great  abysmal 
beyond,  with  only  a  wavering  spark  of  vitality 
connecting  his  soul  with  his  bodily  form.  But 
each  successive  time  when  he  struggled  back 
he  again  took  up  his  burdens  and  pushed 
cheerily  on,  determined  to  discharge  his  obli- 
gations to  his  Maker  and  to  mankind.  Once 
he  wrote  to  a  friend,  —  "The  good  lady,  the 
dear,  kind  lady,  the  sweet,  excellent  lady, 
Nemesis,  whom  alone  I  adore,  has  fixed  her 
wooden  eye  upon  me."    And  again,  later  in 

[10] 


life,  shortly  before  his  death,  he  wrote  to  an- 
other: 

"For  fourteen  years  I  have  not  had  a  day's 
real  health;  I  have  wakened  sick  and  gone 
to  bed  weary ;  and  I  have  done  rny  work  un- 
flinchingly. I  have  written  in  bed,  and  writ- 
ten out  of  it,  written  in  hemorrhages,  written 
in  sickness,  written  torn  by  coughing,  written 
when  my  head  swam  for  weakness;  and  for  so 
long,  it  seems  to  me  I  have  won  my  wager  and 
recovered  my  glove." 

And  yet  courage,  hope  and  manly  vigor 
form  the  keynote  of  all  his  writings.  How, 
under  such  a  constant  handicap,  he  managed 
to  keep  up  his  spirits  and  turn  out  the  tre- 
mendous amount  of  work  that  stands  to  his 
credit  is  a  marvel  that  baffles  human  compre- 
hension. A  whole  volume  might  be  written 
about  his  patient  and  uncomplaining  physical 
martyrdom,  but  to  prolong  narrations  of  mis- 
ery and  misfortune  was  not  Stevenson's  idea 
of  entertaining  his  readers;  it  is  neither  con- 
ducive to  anyone's  comfort,  nor  consonant 
with  the  purpose  of  the  present  article. 

Stevenson's  steadfast  hope  was  expressed  in 

["] 


the  following  lines  written  in  1872,  and  never 
before  published: 

Tho'  day  by  day  old  hopes  depart, 

Yet  other  hopes  arise 
If  still  we  bear  the  hopeful  heart 

And  forward-looking  eyes. 

And  still,  flush-faced,  new  goals  I  see, 

New  finger-posts  I  find, 

And  still  through  rain  and  wind 
A  troop  of  shouting  hopes  keep  step  with  me. 

If  any  one  quality  of  Stevenson's  mind  tran- 
scended all  others,  it  was  his  innate  tenderness 
and  his  constant  thoughtfulness  for  the  unfor- 
tunate. He  did  not  parade  his  charitable 
instincts  before  the  public,  nor  did  he  go  out 
hunting  for  misery  with  fife  and  drum;  but  his 
eye  and  his  mind  were  ever  alert,  and  through 
the  agency  of  his  quiet,  unobtrusive  methods 
a  vast  number  of  afflicted  souls  have  felt  the 
tender  hand  of  charity  and  mercy  extended  to 
them,  as  it  were,  from  out  the  dark.  A  single 
incident  that  occurred  during  his  student  days 
will  illustrate  far  better  than  words.  On  a  hot 
July  day  while  he  was  strolling  through  the 
park,  he  came  upon  a  poor  ragged  urchin 

[12] 


lying  on  the  grass,  perhaps  asleep.  The  for- 
lorn appearance  of  the  lad  arrested  his  atten- 
tion, and  set  his  mind  to  speculating  on  what 
he  could  do  for  him.  He  thought  over  the 
things  that  had  given  him  the  greatest  joy  in 
his  boyhood,  and  it  instantly  recurred  to  him 
that  scarcely  anything  had  ever  exceeded  the 
pleasure  he  had  experienced  on  finding  a  coin 
in  the  pocket  of  some  old  cast-off  garment,  or 
in  some  remote  place  where  he  had  long  ago 
hidden  it  with  a  view  to  surprising  himself 
when  he  should  come  upon  it  unexpectedly. 
So  stealthily  approaching  the  boy  he  slipped  a 
coin  into  one  of  his  pockets,  then  stole  quietly 
away,  chuckling  to  himself  over  the  surprise 
and  delight  that  were  in  store  for  the  little 
fellow. 

If  it  was  excessively  hot,  his  heart  went  out 
to  those  who  sweltered  in  the  close,  stuffy 
quarters  in  the  smoky,  densely  populated 
cities ;  if  it  was  excessively  cold  he  pitied  those 
who  shivered  in  unheated  hovels, — without 
fuel,  bread  or  warm  clothing.  We  can  imag- 
ine that  it  was  on  a  bitter  cold  night  (in  1872) 
that  he  wrote  — 

[13] 


And  first  on  Thee  I  call 
For  bread,  O  God  of  might  1 
Enough  of  bread  for  all,  — 
That  through  the  famished  town 
Cold  hunger  may  lie  down 
With  none  tonight. 

One  might  go  on  indefinitely  with   similar 
examples. 

As  to  the  biographies  of  Stevenson,  it  may 
be  said  that  those  who  have  read  his  writings, 
especially  the  published  letters  and  poems, 
have  but  little  need  for  any  further  biograph- 
ical data,  for  his  life  has  been  pretty  clearly 
written  into  his  works  —  especially  his  letters 
and  poems,  —  so  much  so  that  his  best  biog- 
raphy is  made  up  largely  of  extracts  from  his 
own  pen.  In  the  extant  biographies  his 
genius,  his  virtues,  his  wanderings  in  quest  of 
health,  his  individualism,  and  particularly  his 
ancestry,  have  all  been  set  forth  with  painstak- 
ing perspicuity;  but  after  reading  what  has 
been  written  about  him  we  somehow  feel  as 
if  we  had  been  introduced  to  "little  Bobby" 
all  dressed  for  Sunday  school,  when  we  should 
have  preferred  to  play  with  him  in  his  more 
easy-fitting  every-day-garments.    If  Stevenson 

[14] 


was  anything,  aside  from  being  an  accom- 
plished writer,  he  was  human  to  the  core;  and 
perhaps  we  should  admire  him  none  the  less 
for  knowing  that  he  shared  with  the  rest  of  us 
some  of  the  normal  imperfections  that  gener- 
ally characterize  human  nature.  We  do  not 
like  to  look  upon  those  we  love  as  being  set 
apart  from  us,  wholly  destitute  of  human 
frailties,  —  as  if  they  were  in  a  state  of  pre- 
paredness for  being  wafted  into  the  next 
world ;  but  rather  would  we  have  them  share 
with  us  the  qualities  that  unite  us  on  a  common 
plane.  It  is  sufficient  to  say  that  so  far  as  we 
can  learn  from  those  who  knew  and  loved 
Stevenson  best,  he  was  never,  in  his  early  life 
at  least,  ostracized  by  his  friends  for  his  spot- 
less and  unworldly  purity. 

From  the  smoothness  and  spontaneity  of 
Stevenson's  style  one  may  be  led  to  suppose 
that  his  works  fell  from  his  pen  with  unla- 
bored ease;  but  this  is  far  from  being  true. 
On  the  contrary,  he  had  great  difficulty  in  pre- 
paring his  manuscripts,  which  he  often  revised 
and  rewrote  half  a  dozen  times  or  more.  The 
art  of  writing  is  not  born  full-grown,  any  more 
than  a  man  is  born  into  the  world  with  his 

[iS] 


mental  faculties  and  physical  strength  fully 
developed ;  nor  is  it  a  transmissible  gift  of  any 
god  or  goddess.  No  one,  however  gifted,  ever 
learned  to  play  the  piano,  or  dance,  or  skate, 
or  swim,  or  play  cards,  or  even  to  make  love, 
without  actual  practice.  Stevenson,  like  every 
other  successful  artisan,  first  learned  the  rudi- 
mentary principles  of  his  art,  then  practiced 
incessantly.  Even  as  late  as  1893,  tne  Year 
previous  to  his  death,  he  wrote  to  a  friend: 
"I  sit  here  and  smoke  and  write,  and  rewrite 
and  destroy,  and  rage  at  my  own  impotence, 
from  six  in  the  morning  till  eight  at  night, 
with  trifling,  and  not  always  agreeable,  inter- 
vals for  meals. 

"Be  it  known  to  this  fluent  generation  that 
I,  R.  L.  S.,  in  the  forty-third  [year]  of  my 
age,  and  the  twentieth  of  my  professional  life, 
wrote  twenty-four  pages  in  twenty-one  days!" 
He  was  his  own  severest  critic,  and  even  in  his 
latter  years,  when  he  had  become  widely  rec- 
ognized as  a  master  of  his  art,  he  continued  his 
practice  of  revision,  and  was  prone  to  find 
fault  with  nearly  everything  he  wrote.  One 
of  his  biographers  called  him  a  "natural  born 
genius ;"  but  those  who  are  familiar  with  his 

[16] 


early  work  will  doubtless  agree  that  it  would 
be  more  proper  to  say  that  he  was  born  to 
become  a  genius.  He  was  no  more  a  born 
literary  genius  than  a  man  is  a  born  physician, 
or  a  born  lawyer,  or  a  born  football  player. 
He  was  born  with  a  good  brain,  which  he 
developed  and  used  to  good  advantage,  as  a 
workman  uses  his  tools  in  his  trade.  He  had 
an  abundance  of  good  common  sense;  he  was 
industrious ;  he  had  an  indomitable  will ;  and, 
health  permitting,  he  would  have  made  a  good 
lawyer,  a  good  preacher  or  a  good  anything 
that  he  set  his  mind  to,  —  anything  in  which 
physical  strength  was  not  an  important  requi- 
site. It  is  undoubtedly  true  that  certain 
writers,  notably  of  the  poet  class,  have  been 
gifted  with  an  innate  genius  that  became  more 
or  less  apparent  in  their  early  writings,  just  as 
others  have  shown  early  adaptability  in  other 
callings;  but  Stevenson  was  not  among  those 
singularly  inspired  mortals  whom  genius  pre- 
ordains as  her  own,  and  over  whose  destinies 
she  presides  with  unfaltering  vigilance  and 
solicitude. 

That  he  had  genius  is  not  to  be  doubted ;  but 
it  was  of  the  tender  species  that  required  cul- 

[17] 


tivation.  It  emerged  from  its  embryonic  state 
rather  reluctantly,  and  it  eventually  came  into 
full  bloom  only  as  the  reward  of  hard  work,  of 
fixed  determination,  of  inexhaustible  patience, 
and  singleness  of  purpose.  To  call  a  man  a 
natural  born  literary  genius  is  to  pay  him  a 
dubious  compliment — as  if  great  works,  de- 
spite a  total  lack  of  endeavor,  flowed  from  his 
pen  with  the  same  natural  ease  that  water 
flows  over  a  dam.  We  do  not  compliment  a 
man  by  saying  that  he  was  "born  rich;"  but 
rather,  that  he  is  a  "self-made"  man;  or  if  he 
has  inherited  wealth,  that  he  uses  it  to  benefit 
his  friends,  or  perhaps  humanity  at  large. 

Stevenson  was  not  conspicuously  preco- 
cious, and  even  after  long  years  of  practice 
and  assiduous  study  he  still  found  it  difficult 
to  form  his  compositions  either  to  his  own 
liking  or  that  of  editors,  publishers  or  readers. 
His  early  determination  to  become  a  writer, 
the  resultant  controversies  with  his  parents,  — 
who  with  native  tenacity  adhered  to  their  own 
predilections,  —  his  perennial  battle  against 
the  Grim  Reaper,  whose  spectral  shadow 
always  hovered  about  him  wherever  he  went; 
his  school  and  college  days,  his  uncongenial 

[18] 


studies  in  law  and  in  civil  engineering,  all  are 
matters  with  which  every  reader  of  his  Letters 
or  his  Life  is  already  familiar. 

An  outstanding  feature  of  Stevenson's  char- 
acter is,  that  whatever  he  undertook  to  do  he 
brooked  no  interference  with  his  resolve,  and 
suffered  nothing  to  dissuade  him  from  his 
determination  to  do  it  well.  The  three  fond- 
est wishes  of  his  life,  according  to  his  own 
statement,  were:  first,  good  health;  secondly, 
a  small  competence;  and  thirdly,  friends. 
Only  the  latter  two  were  ever  gratified.  But 
in  accomplishing  the  three  paramount  resolu- 
tions of  his  life  he  was  more  successful.  He 
resolved:  first,, to  become  a  writer;  second,  to 
marry  the  woman  of  his  choice;  and  third,  to 
compel  the  world  to  recognize  his  hard- 
earned  literary  genius. 

In  the  first  instance  he  found  himself  rigor- 
ously opposed  by  the  uncompromising  will  of 
his  parents.  To  surmount  this  barrier  he  was 
obliged  to  employ  considerable  finesse;  for, 
being  penniless,  he  felt  the  need  of  their 
pecuniary  aid.  He  therefore  made  a  feigned 
compliance  with  their  wishes  by  undertaking 
the  study  of  their  chosen  profession,  that  of 

[19] 


civil  engineering;  but  all  the  while  he  read 
and  practiced  industriously  at  his  self-ap- 
pointed calling.  At  length  he  succeeded  in 
persuading  his  parents  into  a  compromise  on 
the  legal  profession,  he  figuring  perhaps  that 
it  afforded  an  excellent  stepping-stone  to  his 
chosen  vocation.  By  the  time  he  was  admitted 
to  the  bar  he  had  advanced  so  far  in  his  own 
favorite  occupation  that  his  parents,  consider- 
ing the  state  of  his  health,  and  recognizing  his 
budding  genius,  capitulated  entirely  and  per- 
mitted him  to  become  the  master  of  his  own 
destiny,  pledging  their  continued  financial 
support. 

No  sooner  had  he  successfully  carried  out 
his  first  resolution,  than  he  came  face  to  face 
with  the  obstacles  of  the  second,  —  which  was 
to  marry  an  American  woman  —  an  art  stu- 
dent—  he  had  met  while  traveling  in  France, 
and  with  whom  he  had  promptly  fallen  in 
love  —  without  consulting  his  parents.  It  must 
be  admitted  that  the  impediments  here  were 
so  manifold  and  apparently  insurmountable 
that  they  most  certainly  would  have  dampened 
the  ardour  of  a  less  determined  suitor.  The 
woman  was  married,  and  had  two  children,  of 

[20] 


whose  father  she  was  still  the  lawful  wife ;  she 
was  a  foreigner  (residing  in  California)  and 
entirely  unknown  to  his  family  or  friends;  the 
date  of  her  prospective  legal  separation  from 
her  husband  was  remote  and  uncertain.  For 
an  invalid  young  man  bent  on  literary  pur- 
suits, with  no  assured  income,  to  break  with 
his  family  and  undertake  the  support  of  a 
dowerless  wife  and  two  children,  would,  to  the 
average  rational  mind,  seem  little  short  of 
sheer  madness.  But  not  so  to  the  impulsive, 
romantic  young  writer;  he  had  made  up  his 
mind  to  take  the  plunge,  and  not  even  the  trip 
across  the  Atlantic  and  "on  towards  the  west" 
to  California  (whither  his  wife-to-be  had 
preceded  him)  could  chill  the  warmth  of  his 
passion.  The  arguments  and  dissuasions  of 
all  his  friends  fell  upon  deaf  ears,  and  after 
managing  somehow  to  get  together  the  neces- 
sary funds  for  passage  he  packed  his  bag  and 
set  out  for  America,  without  even  exchanging 
the  customary  adieus  with  either  family  or 
friends.  It  requires  no  wide  range  of  fancy  to 
picture  what  the  attitude  of  his  parents  would 
have  been  toward  this  adventure,  had  he  pro- 
posed it  to  them  (which  he  did  not) ;  but  to 

[21] 


imagine  their  surprise  and  chagrin  on  discov- 
ering that  he  had  gone  would  not  be  so  easy. 
Ill-health  pursued  him,  as  usual,  wherever  he 
went,  and  on  arriving  in  San  Francisco  he 
wrote  the  exquisite  and  touching  lines  first 
printed  in  the  two-volume  Bibliophile  edition 
of  1916,  beginning  — 

It's  forth  across  the  roaring  foam,  and  on  towards 

the  west, 
It's  many  a  lonely  league  from  home,  o'er  many 

a  mountain  crest, 
From  where  the  dogs  of  Scotland  call  the  sheep 

around  the  fold 
To  where  the  flags  are  flying  beside  the  Gates  of 

Gold. 

It's  there  that  I  was  sick  and  sad,  alone  and  poor 

and  cold, 
In  yon  distressful  city  beside  the  Gates  of  Gold. 

There  are  some  who  can  draw  upon  their 
own  experiences  as  a  testimony  to  the  cheer- 
lessness  of  being  bedridden  in  a  strange  land, 
without  friends  or  congenial  companions;  and 
perhaps  with  the  aid  of  a  little  imagination  we 
might  visualize  the  added  discomforts  of  be- 
ing "poor  and  cold."     But  to  this  array  of 

[22] 


discouragements  add  Stevenson's  dishearten- 
ing experience  of  being  desperately  in  love 
with  a  married  woman  (who  also  was  ill  at 
that  time),  and  we  shall  not  be  surprised  to 
know  that  his  hitherto  unfailing  nerve  desert- 
ed him  for  a  moment,  when  he  wrote  privately 
to  a  friend,  —  "For  four  days  I  have  spoken  to 
no  one  but  my  landlady  or  landlord,  or  to 
restaurant  waiters.  This  is  not  a  gay  way  to 
pass  Christmas,  is  it?  And  I  must  own  the 
guts  are  a  little  knocked  out  of  me.  If  I  could 
work,  I  could  worry  through  better."1  He 
afterwards  accepted  a  job  as  a  reporter  on  the 
Monterey  Calif ornian  at  two  dollars  a  week! 
Mr.  Balfour  says  that  "His  father,  being  im- 
perfectly informed  as  to  his  motives  and  plans, 
naturally  took  that  dark  view  of  his  son's  con- 
duct to  which  his  temperament  predisposed 
him."  His  parental  devotion  was,  however, 
apparently  unaltered,  for  on  hearing  of  his 


1  The  first  part  of  this  letter  was  quoted  by  Balfour  in  his 
Life  of  Stevenson,  but  the  last  twenty-two  words  here  were 
omitted,  and  in  their  stead  he  substituted  the  following,  which, 
if  it  was  not  invented,  must  have  been  taken  from  some  other 
source,  for  it  does  not  appear  in  the  letter:  "After  weeks  in  this 
city  I  know  only  a  few  neighboring  streets.  I  seem  to  be  cured 
of  all  my  adventurous  whims,  and  even  human  curiosity." 

[23] 


son's  illness  he  sent  him  money, — with  the 
promise  of  an  annual  allowance,  —  though 
neither  the  welcome  news  nor  the  money 
reached  him  until  after  he  had  suffered  the 
severest  privations. 

In  short,  within  nine  months  and  some  odd 
days  from  the  time  of  leaving  home  he  mar- 
ried the  woman  for  whom  he  had  exiled  him- 
self from  home  and  friends,  and  on  the  7th  of 
August,  1880,  exactly  one  year  from  the  date 
he  sailed  from  England,  he  and  his  wife  em- 
barked for  home,  where  they  found  family 
and  friends  at  the  Liverpool  dock,  with  eager, 
open  arms  to  receive  them.  He  had  now 
triumphed  in  his  second  resolution,  and  the 
wisdom  of  his  choice  was  exemplified  in  the 
ideal  relationship  that  ensued  between  himself 
and  his  wife,  who  not  only  won  her  way 
instantly  into  the  hearts  of  his  family,  but 
remained  his  constant  and  devoted  helpmate 
and  companion  throughout  the  remainder  of 
his  life. 

But  in  successfully  carrying  out  the  first  two 
of  his  three  great  purposes  in  life  Stevenson 
had  still  before  him  the  all-important  prob- 
lem,—  how  to  earn  a  living  competence  (for 

[24] 


he  could  not  expect  his  parents  to  support 
himself  and  his  wife  indefinitely)  and  still 
maintain  the  dignified  position  he  aspired  to 
in  literature.  The  mere  act  of  selecting  a  pro- 
fession is  in  itself  no  very  difficult  task;  nor 
does  it,  as  a  rule,  involve  a  heavy  draft  upon 
one's  mental  resources  to  fall  in  love  and  get 
married.  But  for  a  young  author  to  win  the 
favor  of  the  publishers  and  the  public  is  quite 
another  and  more  difficult  matter.  Publishers 
are  notoriously  shy  of  aspiring  young  writ- 
ers—  much  more  so  than  women  are  of  young 
swains  —  and  Stevenson  soon  discovered  that 
the  highway  to  success  in  literature  was  a 
lonely,  sinuous  path,  uphill  all  the  way,  with 
no  sign-boards  to  indicate  the  distance  to  the 
summit. 

At  the  time  when  he  cut  himself  adrift  from 
his  parents  and  went  to  California,  he  had 
already  been  successful  in  getting  a  number  of 
articles  and  essays  into  the  magazines,  and  he 
doubtless  supposed  —  if  indeed  he  supposed  at 
all  while  the  raging  love  fever  was  upon 
him  —  that  in  America  he  could  earn  his  own 
way  with  his  pen ;  but  he  soon  discovered  that 
the  light  from  his  flickering  torch  of  fame 

[*S] 


had  not  penetrated  beyond  the  Atlantic,  and 
the  small  foot-hold  that  he  had  secured  at 
home  as  a  magazine  writer  availed  him  noth- 
ing in  this  strange  land.  But  far  from  being 
dismayed,  he  continued  to  write  all  the  while, 
though  he  was  only  adding  to  his  already 
ample  store  of  unpublished,  and  unsalable, 
manuscripts.  It  would  be  interesting  to  know 
if  in  this  period  of  obscurity  he  ever  dreamed 
that  inside  of  forty  years  a  little  scrap  of  his 
manuscript  would  find  a  ready  market  for  a 
sum  that  would  have  kept  him  in  comparative 
opulence  for  a  whole  year !  Like  the  Prodigal 
Son,  he  was  glad  to  return  home  and  find  his 
father's  house  (as  also  his  purse)  still  open  to 
him. 

It  may,  by  way  of  passing  comment,  be  ob- 
served that  although  the  pursuit  of  literature 
as  a  pastime  is  supposed  to  be  both  honorable 
and  pleasant,  yet  when  adopted  seriously  as  a 
bread-winning  trade  there  are  comparatively 
few  who  ever  get  beyond  the  stage  of  appren- 
ticeship. To  gain  any  considerable  success 
requires  more  talents,  industry,  persistence 
and  time  than  most  people  can  afford  to  invest 
in    a   profession,    without   other    concurrent 

[26] 


means  of  support.  Even  the  optimistic,  hard- 
working Stevenson  was  supported  by  his 
father  until  he  was  thirty-three.  Those  who 
contemplate  embarking  in  this  uncertain  craft 
would  do  well  to  read  what  Byron  says  on  the 
subject,  and  to  keep  constantly  in  mind  the 
old  Biblical  saying,  to  the  effect  that  "Many 
are  called,  but  few  are  chosen." 

While  Stevenson  was  at  home  living  on  his 
father's  bounty  during  his  student  days,  he 
probably  looked  upon  his  literary  work 
merely  as  an  essential  part  of  his  education, 
and  although  he  stuck  to  it  with  bulldog 
pertinacity,  it  was  more  in  the  nature  of  a  con- 
genial apprenticeship  than  an  irksome  task, 
such  as  he  found  his  other  studies  to  be.  Be- 
fore he  left  on  his  initial  trip  to  America  his 
first  book,  An  Inland  Voyage,  was  published, 
and  he  seems  to  have  regarded  it  as  a  sort  of 
joke  that  he  should  receive  twenty  pounds  for 
it.  In  the  back  of  the  MS.  notebook  contain- 
ing the  original  account  of  the  voyage  — 
which  he  afterwards  altered  and  extended  — 
he  wrote  the  following  facetious  lines,  which 
for  some  reason  appear  never  to  have  got  into 
print  until  now: 

[27] 


Who  would  think,  herein  to  look, 
That  from  these  exiguous  bounds, 
I  have  dug  a  printed  book 
And  a  cheque  for  twenty  pounds? 
Thus  do  those  who  trust  the  Lord 
Go  rejoicing  on  their  way 
And  receive  a  great  reward 
For  having  been  so  kind  as  play. 

Yes,  I  wrote  the  book;  I  own  the  fact; 

It  was  perhaps,  sir,  an  unworthy  act. 

Have  you  perused  it,  sir?  —  You  have  —  indeed ! 

Then  between  you  and  me  there  no  debate  is. 

I  did  a  silly  act,  but  I  was  fee'd; 

You  did  a  sillier,  and  you  did  it  gratis ! 

Apparently  the  public  also  considered  it  a 
joke,  for  no  one  took  it  seriously  (save  the  pub- 
lisher who  paid  twenty  pounds  for  it),  and 
nobody  in  particular  paid  any  attention  to  it, 
except  that  two  or  three  sneering  critics 
deigned  to  notice  it.  The  Travels  with  a 
Donkey  appeared  the  following  year,  and 
although  a  better  book,  it  met  with  the  same 
indifferent  reception ;  its  title  was  paraphrased 
by  some  unfeeling  wag  as  the  "Travels  of  a 
Donkey I"     Treasure  Island   (in  its  original 

[28] 


draft),  which  first  appeared  in  serial  form  in 
1 88 1,  was  perhaps  more  widely  read,  hence 
more  widely  scoffed  at.  Mr.  Balfour  says  that 
"it  ran  an  obscure  career  in  the  pages  of  a 
magazine,  and  was  openly  mocked  at  by  more 
than  one  indignant  reader."  This  contuma- 
cious attitude  of  the  public  must  have  shaken 
Stevenson's  faith,  temporarily  at  least,  in  his 
ability  ever  to  win  popular  favor.  Once  he 
wrote,  —  "At  times  I  get  terribly  frightened 
about  my  work,  which  seems  to  advance  too 
slowly."  But  the  louder  the  critics  railed  at 
him  the  harder  he  worked,  and  the  more  stub- 
born became  his  determination  to  succeed, — 
not  alone  for  the  fame  and  emoluments  that 
success  would  bring,  but  that  he  might  prove 
to  his  parents  that  he  had  chosen  wisely  in  his 
profession.  Then,  too,  he  may  have  felt  a 
trifle  piqued,  that  at  the  age  of  thirty-one  he 
and  his  wife  were  still  dependent  upon  his 
father,  who  continued  to  provide  as  liberally 
for  them  as  his  means  would  allow.  Steven- 
son's position  may  be  compared  to  that  of  a 
soldier  storming  the  enemy's  heights;  if  he 
reaches  the  summit,  glory  awaits  him;  if  he 
turns   back,   dishonor  awaits   him.     Having 

[29] 


entered  the  fray,  there  is  no  alternative  but  to 
fight  it  through,  no  matter  how  thick  the  mis- 
siles may  fly.  And  so  it  was  with  Stevenson. 
The  lives  of  soldiers  and  writers  are  analogous 
in  at  least  one  other  respect,  in  that  their  fame 
usually  begins  where  life  leaves  off. 

While  Stevenson  was  struggling  for  recog- 
nition in  the  world  of  letters  he  wrote  and 
rewrote,  again  and  again,  literally  thousands 
of  pages  of  manuscript,  all  under  the  most 
trying  conditions,  with  but  small  hope  that  his 
work  would  ever  be  printed.  And  it  is  worthy 
of  remark  that  during  that  period  he  wrote 
much,  especially  in  verse,  that  he  never  sur- 
passed in  his  maturer  years.  His  manuscript 
of  "Some  Portraits  by  Raeburn,"  was  thrice 
rejected,  —  by  the  Cornhill,  the  Pall  Mall 
Gazette,  and  by  Blackwood's.  Yet  he  went  on 
rewriting,  revising,  and  writing  more. 

It  must  require  a  stout  heart  and  a  large 
measure  of  self-confidence  to  continue  thus  to 
labor  over  the  rejected  children  of  one's  brain 
with  the  vague  hope  of  improving  their  dis- 
torted forms.  And  in  the  performance  of  this 
melancholy  task  a  man  must  often  wonder  if, 
after  all,  he  has  not  missed  his  calling,  —  if  he 

[30] 


had  not  better  been  a  "ditcher,"  as  Byron  said. 
In  most  professions  or  avocations  a  well- 
poised  man  is  usually  competent  to  set  a  fairly 
accurate  estimate  upon  his  talent,  genius  or 
adaptability;  he  may  avow  that  he  is  a  great 
financier  because,  having  begun  with  nothing, 
he  has  amassed  a  fortune ;  or  a  great  physician 
because  he  has  effected  miraculous  cures;  or  a 
great  philanthropist  because  he  has  erected 
hospitals  and  given  away  vast  sums  of  money 
to  worthy  charities;  but  who  shall  say,  or  even 
honestly  feel,  that  he  is  a  great  writer,  or  a 
great  painter,  or  a  great  actor,  when  his  work 
is  unequivocally  damned  by  the  verdict  of  the 
public!  A  certain  measure  of  modesty  being 
one  of  the  usual  concomitants  of  greatness,  it 
is  not  to  be  doubted  that  the  tardiness  of  the 
public  in  recognizing  genius  has  driven 
many  a  talented  and  unrewarded  craftsman  to 
his  grave  with  a  sadly  underestimated  value  of 
his  life  work.  In  the  instance  of  Burns,  Byron, 
Shelley,  Keats  and  Poe,  and  many  others,  we 
find  striking  examples  of  this  truth.  While 
all  of  those  named  had  greater  confidence  in 
the  merit  of  their  work  than  the  contemporary 
critics  and  the  public  had  yet  manifested,  they 

[31] 


could  scarcely  have  been  so  sanguine  as  to 
have  rated  it  at  its  present  estimated  worth. 
Even  Byron,  who  after  having  been  made  a 
popular  idol  was  practically  driven  into  exile, 
could  hardly  have  dreamed  what  a  great  poet 
he  was  to  become  in  the  estimation  of  those 
who  so  roundly  abused  both  him  and  his  work. 

Stevenson  was  more  fortunate  than  most  of 
his  fellow-bards,  in  having  lived  to  reap  a  rel- 
atively larger  part  of  his  own  sowing;  but  in 
literature,  alas,  the  ripened  grain  is  too  often 
harvested  by  hands  that  had  no  part  in  the 
planting. 

In  1883,  at  the  age  of  thirty-three,  Steven- 
son's long  and  vigorous  pounding  at  the  doors 
of  the  goddess  of  Fame  began  to  attract  that 
reluctant  lady's  attention  and  caused  her  to 
bestir  herself  and  open  the  door  of  her  ex- 
clusive sanctuary  wide  enough  to  give  him  an 
initial  peep  within.  In  that  year  his  revised 
manuscript  of  Treasure  Island  was  accepted 
by  Cassell  &  Co.,  and  he  nearly  went  wild 
with  delight.  In  his  characteristic  boyish 
enthusiasm  —  he  was  always  more  or  less  of  a 
boy  —  he  wrote  home  to  his  folks,  —  "There 
has  been  offered  for  Treasure  Island — what 

[32] 


do  you  suppose?  I  believe  it  would  be  an 
excellent  jest  to  keep  the  answer  till  my  next 
letter.  For  two  cents  I  would  do  so.  Shall  I? 
Anyway,  I'll  turn  the  page  first.  No — well  — 
a  hundred  pounds,  all  alive,  Ol  A  hundred 
jingling,  tingling,  golden,  minted  quid!  Is 
not  this  wonderful?" 

And,  what  was  far  more  gratifying,  the 
book  when  published  had  a  wild-fire  success. 
In  a  short  time  everybody  was  reading  it,  talk- 
ing about  it,  and  praising  its  author.  It  was 
hailed  as  the  best  book  that  had  appeared  since 
Robinson  Crusoe.  In  the  same  year  the  Cen- 
tury Magazine  took  notice  of  him,  and  Editor 
Gilder  accepted  his  Silverado  Squatters  at  a 
good  figure.  He  also  printed  a  flattering 
notice  about  the  brilliant  young  author.  At 
last  Stevenson  had  gained  the  coveted  foothold 
in  America,  which,  added  to  his  other  suc- 
cesses of  the  year  —  netting  him  nearly  four 
hundred  pounds  —  almost  prostrated  him  with 
joy.  In  January  of  the  next  year  he  wrote  to 
his  mother,  —  "When  I  think  of  how  last  year 
began,  after  four  months  of  sickness  and  idle- 
ness,—  all  my  plans  gone  to  water,  myself 
starting  alone,  a  kind  of  spectre,  for  Nice — 

[33] 


should  I  not  be  grateful?    Come,  let  us  sing 
unto  the  Lord!" 

The  next  three  years  marked  a  series  of 
noteworthy  successes,  including  A  Child's 
Garden  of  Verses,  Kidnapped,  and  the 
Strange  Case  of  Dr.  Jekyl  and  Mr.  Hyde] 
and  their  author,  on  his  second  visit  to  Amer- 
ica in  1887,  was  received  with  wide  acclaim. 
The  unheralded  and  unknown  lovelorn  immi- 
grant of  eight  years  before  had,  as  if  by  the 
intervention  of  magic,  become  the  popular 
literary  hero  of  the  day,  and  from  this  time  on 
editors  and  publishers  besieged  him  with  ap- 
peals for  stories,  essays,  books  or  anything  he 
had  a  mind  to  send  them.  One  magazine  paid 
him  $3500  for  twelve  articles,  another  offered 
him  $8000  for  the  serial  rights  of  his  next 
story,  and  a  leading  New  York  paper  offered 
him  $10,000  to  write  an  article  once  a  week 
for  a  year.  He  was  so  overcome  by  this 
sudden  outburst  of  munificence  that  he  com- 
plained to  one  of  the  editors,  saying  that  he 
was  being  demoralized  by  the  fabulous  prices 
paid  him  in  America;  that  he  didn't  want 
such  sums  —  all  he  wanted  was  a  moderate 
competency.     Henceforward   his   fame   rose 

[34] 


steadily,  nor  did  it  ever  suffer  the  slightest 
diminution.  And  it  is  worthy  of  note  that 
with  his  increasing  popularity  he  felt  a  corre- 
spondingly augmented  responsibility,  which 
prompted  him  to  become  more  and  more  self- 
exacting  in  the  quality  of  his  work.  It  is 
doubtful  if  any  man  ever  bore  his  literary 
honors  with  more  becoming  modesty,  or  with 
a  keener  sense  of  gratitude  and  personal  obli- 
gation toward  those  who  bestowed  them.  He 
never  permitted  his  standards  to  trail  in  the 
dust  of  commonplaceness,  he  never  wrote  him- 
self out,  he  never  bartered  on  his  reputation, 
and  he  never  exalted  himself  above  his  strug- 
gling fellow-craftsmen. 

His  contribution  to  the  world  was  large;  he 
wrote  good  wholesome,  entertaining  stories 
and  essays,  and  his  poems  —  many  of  which 
are  in  the  nature  of  personal  documents  —  are 
resonant  with  human  feeling.  In  his  own  life, 
moreover,  he  furnished  a  conspicuous  example 
of  perseverance,  hopefulness  and  manly  forti- 
tude, worthy  of  study  and  emulation,  for  both 
young  and  old.  He  gave  to  the  world  the  best 
fruits  of  his  well  tilled  vineyard,  for  which  he 
took  far  less  in  exchange ;  and  he  left  to  man- 

[35] 


kind  a  useful  heritage  that  will  outlive  all  the 
contemporary  monuments  in  Christendom. 

With  mournful  dirge  or  sad  refrains 

No  page  he  e'er  inscribed; 
His  choicest  wine  the  world  retains, 

While  he  the  dregs  imbibed. 

Though  tossed  and  torn  by  many  a  gale, 
Though  scarred  by  many  a  reef, 

His  fragile  bark,  with  unfurled  sail, 
Returned  unto  its  Chief. 

Henry  H.  Harper 


[36] 


AN  INLAND  VOYAGE 

In  Stevenson's  earliest  draft  of  An  Inland 
Voyage  (the  first  of  his  MSS.  to  appear  in 
book  form)  the  first  five  consecutive  pages  of 
the  manuscript  were  omitted  in  the  printed 
editions.  Whether  these  initial  pages  (the 
first  of  which  appears  herein  in  facsimile) 
were  included  in  his  final  draft,  and  struck 
out  by  publishers,  or  accidentally  omitted  by 
the  printer,  or  whether  they  were  left  out  by 
the  author  himself,  it  is  impossible  to  say;  but 
the  reader  is  now  given  the  opportunity  of 
judging  for  himself  as  to  whether  or  not  the 
opening  chapter  did  not  suffer  a  more  or  less 
serious  impairment  by  the  excision.  In  addi- 
tion there  are  in  the  original  MS.  two  little 
autobiographical  touches  that  were  excluded, 
—  by  whom,  or  for  what  reason,  is  left  for  the 
reader  to  conjecture.  In  his  enthusiasm  the 
youthful  writer  seems  to  have  desired  to  give 
an  honest  account  of  all  that  occurred,  but  it 
may  be  that  on  more  calm  deliberation  he  de- 
cided to  omit  the  parts  relating  to  his  embar- 
rassment in  the  men's  dressing  room,  and  later 
his  boyish  obstinacy  in  stoutly  refusing  to 
show  his  passport,  because  he  was  an  English 

[37] 


subject;  which  fact  alone  he  regarded  as  a  suf- 
ficient mark  of  identification.  Or  it  may  be 
that  the  publisher,  not  being  gifted  with  ade- 
quate prophetic  endowments,  was  unable  to 
foresee  his  young  author's  future  importance, 
and  therefore  eliminated  the  two  intimate 
passages  on  the  ground  that  they  would 
neither  instruct  nor  amuse  contemporary  read- 
ers. In  the  study  of  a  popular  author  and  his 
works,  the  public  is  entitled  to  all  the  existent 
facts,  and  however  much  or  however  little 
these  suppressed  passages  may  be  worth  as  lit- 
erature they  are  assuredly  interesting  as  a 
sidelight  upon  Stevenson's  first  printed  book. 
Their  apparent  amateurishness  becomes  a  fea- 
ture of  additional  interest  when  we  consider 
the  heights  to  which  the  author  of  An  Inland 
Voyage  afterwards  attained  as  a  master  of 
rhetoric. 

At  the  end  of  the  five  pages  of  unpublished 
matter  in  the  MS.  note  book  there  appears  a 
little  pen  and  ink  sketch,  of  which  the  accom- 
panying is  a  photographic  reproduction.  The 
grassy  banks,  the  water,  the  boats  and  the 
lighthouse  are  all  understandable;  but  what 
the  author  had  in  mind  when  he  drew  the  ob- 

[38] 


BlJWfltjwmwIllii  #  II  WBjiMMMsMIBWWMMHM 


i* 


v 


WvL^  WwJs   {t$**o-  tve^el^    iwK, 

.  c  ,  n   3  »      v. 

H?^i_  tee  AJLJX"  ^Afe.  UJ£> 

WW*     CvwtA_  Vu~*_    Wvd^V  "*     ^-vtvvvv 


ject  farther  up  on  the  page  —  unless  it  was  the 
Rajah's  diamond  —  is  left  for  the  reader  to 
determine  for  himself. 

On  the  last  page  of  the  note  book  Stevenson 
wrote  the  following  lines,  which  do  not  ap- 
pear ever  to  have  been  printed,  though  the 
quatrain  shown  in  the  center  of  the  facsimile 
page  has  been  somewhere  put  in  type : — 

Who  would  think,  herein  to  look, 
That  from  these  exiguous  bounds, 
I  have  dug  a  printed  book 
And  a  cheque  for  twenty  pounds  ? 
Thus  do  those  who  trust  the  Lord 
Go  rejoicing  on  their  way 
And  receive  a  great  reward 
For  having  been  so  kind  as  play. 


Yes,  sir,  I  wrote  the  book;  I  own  the  fact; 

It  was  perhaps,  sir,  an  unworthy  act. 

Have  you  perused  it,  sir? — You  have? — indeed! 

Then  between  you  and  me  there  no  debate  is. 

I  did  a  silly  act,  but  I  was  fee'd; 

You  did  a  sillier,  and  you  did  it  gratis ! 


[39] 


AN  INLAND  VOYAGE 

The  two  canoes  had  been  baking  all  day 
long  upon  a  stack  of  cotton  bales,  in  a  fine 
warping  summer  sun.  It  was  about  a  quarter 
past  one  when  I  (the  crew  of  the  Arethusa) 
stole  out  of  the  Hawk  with  my  waterproof 
bag  on  my  shoulder  and  set  myself  to  mount 
the  stack.  A  Flemish  custom  officer  with  a 
long  spike  in  his  hand  to  assure  himself  there 
were  no  articles  of  contraband  in  cotton  bales, 
and  (as  one  thought  grislily)  in  human  stom- 
achs, and  with  as  much  French  as  was  neces- 
sary for  his  own  vainglory,  but  not  for  the  in- 
struction of  his  neighbors,  laid  hold  upon  me 
and  insisted  on  examining  my  bag.  As  it  had 
been  examined  already  in  one  of  the  outer  un- 
known hours  which  precede  eight  o'clock  and 
the  dawn  of  civilized  existence,  I  was  dissatis- 
fied, and  expressed  my  dissatisfaction  so 
roundly  that  he  made  a  feint  of  examination 
and  retired  into  the  second  plane  in  a  flourish 
of  official  cap. 

So  soon  as  I  was  up  on  the  top  of  the  bale, 
I  began  to  form  an  object  in  the  burnt-up  emp- 
ty quay.  Several  Flemish  loungers  came 
below  and  daintily  handled  the  prow  of  the 

[40] 


fc 


W^W-tfv^w.    yV-go^A^?        4Ua1c/L_     ^v^^i^J^-    ^a-<^^   0    C^wvl/L  C^^V^ 


Arethusa,  which  somewhat  projected  beyond 
the  stack;  while  the  mate  of  the  Hawk  and 
four  or  five  seamen  sate  them  down  beside  me 
and  watched  my  movements  with  ironical 
gravity.  Sometimes  they  spoke  to  each  other 
in  tones  which  it  would  have  been  impolite  to 
overhear.  Sometimes  one  of  the  more  youth- 
ful Flemings  would  displace  something  I  had 
already  arranged,  by  way  of  lending  a  hand. 
It  was  the  business  of  the  crew  of  the  Arethusa 
to  pretend  complete  unconsciousness  of  his 
surroundings;  the  least  encouragement  to  the 
youthful  Flemings  would  be  fatal;  the  most 
humiliating  advances  would  not  move  the 
men  from  the  Hawk  to  cordiality;  in  the  midst 
of  all  these  curious  eyes  and  pointing  and 
meddling  fingers,  on  the  top  of  a  stack  of  cot- 
ton bales  in  Antwerp  Docks,  the  crew  of  the 
Arethusa  must  conduct  himself  after  the  pat- 
tern of  a  solitary  Hermit  in  the  Thebaid. 

Hereupon  arrived  the  crew  of  the  Ciga- 
rette. He  looked  hot  and  vexed ;  he  found  the 
crew  of  the  Arethusa  up  beside  the  bubbling 
varnish,  looking  hot  and  vexed.  However, 
he  brought  good  news.     He  had  made  the  ac- 

[41] 


quaintance  of  one  who  called  himself  a  steve- 
dore. 

"What  is  a  Stevedore?"  asked  the  Arethusa. 

"Head  of  a  gang  of  porters,  fellow,"  ans- 
wered the  Cigarette. 

"What's  the  derivation?" 

"O  don't  bother!"  answered  the  Cigarette, 
looking  hotter,  and  then  he  went  on.  The 
stevedore  had  agreed  to  take  the  two  canoes 
down  to  the  slip,  which  alas!  was  a  good  dis- 
tance hence;  nay,  here  the  stevedore  was  with 
a  proper  following.  And  the  canoes  are  al- 
ready shouldered  and  the  teams  beginning  to 
step  out,  when  the  customhouse  officer  with 
the  spike,  steps  in  as  a  Diabolus  ex  Machina, 
and  orders  all  these  proceedings  to  cease. 
"Nothing  can  leave  the  dock  before  two 
o'clock,"  he  explains,  and  adds,  with  malice, 
that  we  seem  very  ill-informed,  and  that  we 
shall  certainly  find  we  have  ten  or  twelve  per 
cent,  to  pay  upon  the  value.  Thereupon,  hav- 
ing done  his  worst,  the  customhouse  officer 
once  more  retires  into  the  immediate  distance 
where  he  prowls  watchfully,  steel  spike  in 
hand.  I  suspect  the  two  crews,  as  they  sat  on 
a  semi-molten  tarpaulin  waiting  two  o'clock, 

[42] 


discussed  the  value  of  their  gallant  ships. 
One  of  them  had  never  been  in  the  water  be- 
fore, it  was  true,  and  was  not  yet  paid  for: — 
77  etait  un  petit  navire 
Qui  n'  avait  ja-ja — jamais  navigue; 
and  the  other  was  not  entirely  venerable;  but 
the  smallest  circumstance,  the  least  adventure, 
such  as  this  voyage  on  the  Hawk  just  happily 
accomplished  —  nay,  and  even  the  change  of 
hands  —  diminishes  the  values  of  such  fragile 
articles  so  disproportionately,  that  half-price 
would  be  an  absurdly  honest  return.  Pardon 
these  old  tars,  if  you  please;  they  were  not 
much  sophisticated;  the  niceties  of  naval  ques- 
tions were  not  clear  to  their  blunt  honesty; 
and  the  gauger  with  the  spike  lurked  always 
in  the  middle  distance. 

At  two  o'clock,  the  crew  of  the  Cigarette 
went  in  a  deputation  to  the  Custom  House. 
Here,  by  his  own  account,  he  sustained  a  legal 
reputation,  already  of  some  standing,  against 
all  the  Custom  House  Intelligence  of  Ant- 
werp. He  explained  it  was  no  more  just  to 
charge  for  a  canoe  than  for  a  portmanteau,  an 
umbrella,  or  a  hat;  and  having  thus  reduced 
the  official  proposition  ad  absurdum,  he  stood 

[43] 


and  perspired  defiantly,  while  they  consulted 
together  behind  their  pen  and  sought  new 
arguments  for  extortion.  Finally,  he  was  sent 
before  a  person  of  more  standing,  who  was  a 
gentleman,  and  quietly  pooh-poohed  the 
whole  affair.  [At  this  point  the  published 
text  of  the  Voyage  begins.] 

[At  page  twenty-three  of  the  MS.  where 
Stevenson  relates  that  he  and  his  companion 
were  enjoying  the  hospitality  of  the  Royal 
Sport  Nautique,  he  says,  in  an  unprinted  pas- 
sage:—] 

We  were  led  up  stairs  to  a  lavatory,  water 
and  soap  were  set  before  us,  many  hands  help- 
ed to  undo  our  bags.  The  Arethusa  is  not 
built  like  a  rowing  man,  and  it  was  with  con- 
siderable delicacy  and  a  sense  of  natural  hu- 
miliation, that  he  stripped  under  the  gaze  of 
all  these  Belgian  oarsmen.  He  thought  he 
could  detect  a  distinct  lessening  of  interest 
after  he  had  disclosed  himself;  and  waited 
with  impatience  for  the  moment  when  the  de- 
liberate Cigarette  should  retrieve  the  honour 
of  Britain  by  displaying  his  biceps  and  vermi- 
forms. 

[44] 


[In  Chapter  IV  of  the  MS.  note  book 
where  Stevenson,  assuming  the  character  of 
"Arethusa,"  laments  his  luckless  fate,  he  says 
that  "if  he  goes  without  his  passport  he  is 
cast  into  noisome  dungeons;  if  his  papers  are 
in  order  he  is  suffered  to  go  his  way,  humiliat- 
ed by  a  general  incredulity.  He  is  a  born 
British  subject,  yet  he  has  never  succeeded 
in  persuading  a  single  official  of  his  national- 
ity. He  flatters  himself  he  is  indifferent  hon- 
est, yet  he  is  rarely  taken  for  anything  better 
than  a  spy;  and  there  is  no  absurd  and  disre- 
spectable  means  of  livelihood  that  has  not 
been  attributed  to  him  in  some  flash  of  official 
or  popular  suspicion."  After  this  the  follow- 
ing episode  was  omitted  in  the  printed 
text :— ] 

On  the  present  occasion,  his  usual  fortune 
followed  him;  and  when  the  Cigarette,  who 
followed  as  usual  a  little  behind,  arrived  on 
the  scene  of  action,  he  found  his  companion, 
put  aside  behind  the  barrier,  with  a  spot  of 
dirty  white  on  each  cheek  bone,  indicating 
the  highest  transport  of  unchristian  feeling, 

U5] 


and  protesting  in  strained  and  trembling  tones 
that  he  would  not  exhibit  his  papers. 

"But,  man,  show  them  and  be  done  with  it," 
said  the  Cigarette  quietly,  "You  know  they 
like  playing  at  being  officers  and  that  kind  of 
thing,  but  humour  them." 

"I'll  be  damned  if  I  do,"  answered  the 
Arethusa.  "What's  the  good  of  treaties? 
You  have  no  Union  Jackery  about  you;  and 
mind  you,  it's  a  most  fundamental  part  of  my 
character — the  Union  Jack  and  'one  English- 
man worth  a  dozen  French  fellows,'  and  all 
that." 

Reason  prevailed,  and  the  Arethusa  handed 
over  his  passport  with  a  "Voila  Monsieur, 
man  remarquez  bien,  je  protested  The  officer 
who  was  a  very  good  looking  chap,  I  must 
admit,  was  reduced  by  this  protest  to  a  con- 
dition nearly  as  abject  as  that  of  his  adver- 
sary, and  during  the  rest  of  the  time  they 
exchanged  glances  of  contemptuous  enmity 
and  threw  themselves  into  gracefully  aggres- 
sive attitudes  whenever  their  eyes  met.  Nay, 
when  it  was  all  over  and  the  crews  were  seated 
again  in  the  railway  carriage,  the  officer  came 
forth,  lit  a  cigarette  and  strolled  up  and  down 

[46] 


the  platform  before  their  window  with  an 
absurd  affectation  of  calm.  Nor  was  the  Are- 
thusa  any  less  ridiculous.  Two  cocks  in  a 
farmyard  are  not  more  [so]. 


[47] 


THE  OPENING  AND  THE  CLOSE  OF 
"LAY  MORALS" 

Accompanying  the  posthumously  printed 
edition  of  Stevenson's  "Lay  Morals"  there  is 
a  short  editorial  note  in  which  it  is  stated  that 
the  chapters  were  drafted  in  Edinburgh  in  the 
spring  of  1879;  that  "they  were  unrevised  and 
must  not  be  taken  as  representing,  either  as  to 
matter  or  form,  their  author's  final  thoughts." 
In  thus  apologetically  referring  to  the  work  as 
being  "unrevised"  the  editor  was  doubtless  not 
aware  that  there  are  at  least  three  distinctly 
separate  drafts  of  the  MS.  now  in  existence; 
for  in  Mr.  Peabody's  collection  there  are  two, 
—  both  of  which  differ  from  the  printed  ver- 
sion to  such  an  extent  as  to  remove  all  doubt 
that  the  text  was  taken  from  still  another  draft, 
or  rather  a  partial  draft.  One  of  Mr.  Pea- 
body's  MSS.  appears  to  be  the  first  tentative 
draft,  —  possibly  the  one  Stevenson  made  in 
1879, — while  the  other  is  much  longer  and 
seems  to  have  been  written  later,  — possibly  in 
the  fall  of  1883,  when  he  wrote  to  his  father: 
"I  have  come  for  the  moment,  to  a  pause  in 
my  moral  works,  for  I  have  many  irons  in 
the  fire    ....    It  is  a  most  difficult  work; 

[49] 


a  touch  of  the  parson  will  drive  off  those  I 
hope  to  influence;  a  touch  of  overstrained 
laxity,  besides  disgusting,  like  a  grimace,  may 
do  harm.  Nothing  that  I  have  ever  seen  yet, 
speaks  directly  and  efficaciously  to  young  men, 
and  I  do  hope  I  may  find  wit  and  wisdom  to 
fill  up  the  gap." 

In  one  of  Mr.  Peabody's  MSS.  there  is  a 
highly  important  introductory  chapter  that 
does  not  appear  in  the  printed  fragment, which 
begins  rather  abruptly  and  ends  more  abrupt- 
ly. The  first  of  the  two  facsimiles  herein 
shows  the  beginning  of  this  introductory  chap- 
ter, and  the  second  shows  the  unpublished 
ending,  which  proves  conclusively  that  Stev- 
enson did  finish  the  essay;  whereas  in  the 
most  complete  edition  of  Stevenson's  works 
the  printed  text  ends  incompletely  with  the 
words,  "they  must  accept  and  deal  with  this 
money  .  .  .  ."  and  the  reader  is  left  in 
darkness,  not  knowing  whether  the  author 
ever  finished  his  work,  or  how,  or  where,  he 
was  to  end  it,  if  at  all.  In  the  later  "Bio- 
graphical Edition"  of  191 1  it  is  even  less  com- 
plete,—  the  last  two  sentences  of  the  text  in  the 
previous  edition  having  been  dropped.     It  is 

[50] 


quite  probable  that  at  least  the  first  chapters 
of  the  piece  were  written  while  the  author's 
thoughts  on  the  subject  were  in  a  state  of  em- 
bryo, for  his  outlook  on  life  was  based  upon 
theory  rather  than  experience.  But  this  de- 
tracts nothing  from  the  interest  of  the  work  as 
an  introspective  study.  What  he  would  have 
said  had  he  written  it  late  in  life  is  no  more  to 
the  point  than  it  would  be  to  speculate  on 
what  changes  he  might  have  made  in  any 
other  work  had  he  rewritten  it  in  after  life. 
What  concerns  us  is  what  he  actually  did 
write ;  and  the  fact  that  he  did  not  destroy  the 
MSS.,  as  he  did  many  others,  would  indicate 
that  he  was  willing  to  have  the  essay  publish- 
ed after  his  death.  There  is  nothing  to  war- 
rant an  assumption  that  he  intended  to  revise 
the  essay  again  or  make  it  longer  than  it  is, 
except  that  in  the  opening  chapter  he  refers 
to  it  as  a  book,  rather  than  as  an  essay. 

The  two  top  lines  of  manuscript  in  the  sec- 
ond photographic  reproduction  are  identical 
with  the  ending  of  the  more  complete  printed 
text;  and  it  will  be  seen  that  immediately  fol- 
lowing, on  the  same  page  of  manuscript  there 
is  an  unprinted  recapitulation,  in  seven  short 

[51] 


paragraphs,  which  apparently  did  not  appear 
in  the  draft  used  by  the  printer. 

What  the  author's  "final  thoughts"  were  — 
if  he  contemplated  any  further  revision  — it  is 
of  course  impossible  to  say;  but  it  is  at  least 
certain  that  he  devoted  a  great  deal  of  thought 
to  the  subject,  and  it  is  likely  that  he  ultimate- 
ly succeeded  in  rounding  it  out  about  as  he 
wanted  it.  The  fourth  (which  is  the  final) 
chapter  is  by  far  the  most  important,  and 
seems  to  have  bothered  him  more  than  any 
other,  for  he  rewrote  that  part  repeatedly, 
changing  it  slightly  each  time.  In  one  of  the 
short  suppressed  passages  he  says:  "There  is 
no  such  word  as  belong  in  Morals.  However 
much  a  man  may  seem  pressed  by  great  he- 
reditary fortunes,  there  is  nothing  in  life  for 
an  honest  man  but  exchange  of  service.  Nei- 
ther the  existence  of  great  hereditary  fortunes 
in  the  hands  of  others,  nor  the  possession  of 
one  for  himself,  can  confuse  the  appreciation 
of  an  honest  and  thoughtful  soul ;  he  will  see 
a  reciprocity  of  services,  and  nothing  more. 
He  is  one  of  mankind's  stewards.  He  but 
holds  [his  fortune]  in  trust  for  mankind,  and 
to  mankind  it  must  return." 

[5*] 


But  in  rewriting  the  manuscript  Stevenson 
omitted  this,  probably  because  he  had  repeat- 
ed the  substance  of  it  elsewhere  in  the  essay. 
There  are  also  a  few  other  short  passages  that 
were  omitted,  either  for  the  same  reason,  or 
else  because  he  considered  them  too  abstruse, 
even  for  a  didactical  theme. 

The  text  as  printed,  without  the  introduc- 
tory part,  fails  to  indicate  what  Stevenson  par- 
ticularly specified,  both  in  the  opening 
sentence  and  in  the  letter  to  his  father, — 
namely,  that  the  essay  was  addressed  to  young 
men.  The  complete  work  is  not  given  here, 
for  the  reason  that  the  portion  already  printed 
is  protected  by  copyright,  and  Mr.  Peabody's 
MS.  covering  that  part  does  not  differ  suffi- 
ciently to  warrant  us  in  printing  it  without 
infringement  on  the  publisher's  rights.  It  is 
unfortunate  that  so  important  a  piece  as  this 
—  to  which  Stevenson  probably  gave  more 
serious  thought  than  to  any  other  essay  he  ever 
wrote  —  should  have  been  given  to  the  world 
as  an  "unrevised"  and  unfinished  fragment, 
whereas  the  author  not  only  revised  it  repeat- 
edly, but  finished  it,  as  shown  by  his  summing 
up  at  the  end. 

[53] 


The  possessor  of  one  of  these  volumes  may 
perhaps  find  some  amusement  in  making  for 
himself  a  complete  copy  of  the  essay  by  join- 
ing together  the  parts  here  printed  with  those 
already  published;  and  against  such  an  act  no 
copyright  injunction  would  hold. 

The  following  is  the  hitherto  unpublished 
introductory  chapter  to  "Lay  Morals." 


[54] 


«««&*-  ;    *--•<.    *«.  m    S^LsttLtLffc  i^w^    cLJJ-   A — */.  £m~*+A*U'  %ts^~4  U^o  aMy.  c+^j,  t   &  4tUX*^o  Aa.  - 
4w»-6/,   .    fit.   .'-.    a — 7u*n»«j.    Ga^a/:«>Cc    ^V^*-     rv***>+'t'  C*.t£*  a^—el    4<^£^**~e~«-C<?  y   t/l^s  o4s.   4v>w-/-(^J  ,    Uy,, 

W      61         ^---A/U»^C     *~       P*<      ^W*/'  w.^/^}  ^^Zc,      WL    J-**-v— *      4     /Cwvw   J      0*~4~  U*      tfcs*    t*~sJ\,U.    £a*>a*A-<,. 

■  .  ,  ^^ 

<^  .  ^ '  .' 

~j\-Ksl-sLe^       /(^*^#^i-»     Ux*s^£6*~cA*.  .      -^A<-t<_    A~«.     Ao     Aft-    ^  \^ci£s*     Us        U    i<_  /    A—    -*     /ti^O^— ^C     t*<t-<i-<o^--3    j 

,wv~*~.     -K>      i^-^Jldu^ejL-    «J  -^€    /C*^k~    fi^U^a  n~~&L-.    l+Myss.**.  J2T,  0-Zf  a~t/t~<A- 
dn^mL      *6i~iA~*i    (MvvJ-^    i~/Lt^.    ^€.  ut    £~.  -^lA^i      ht    vVT  ~  /fcisA.  .    ti*+^c^,U*A  4«~-ctfe~ 

i  i*~q**.u*~**j    t*   *JL*iM.   ILt  Ljm.,}^^^]-^^.    ;^it^(   5    ^^c.^*^    C t~f  {i~s#l  d-'vi  L°te**x.t  ***> 
j  <$6>Ko^vc^C  .   /(,      *"^    ; .•a>-»    ,    iy^/^/*UL    £L  e^XL     XTkLa  hxA^C;   u.  La«uA~  £4stfi*~AX'~  "  t~<-  & — «_ 

~tLu^>    iK-~cL.      hM~,.    /~r*~s±*£V     VClfc.   G~*l.    *fj*.    ^IUmX A^i^-U.  fiMNMit ,    ^*    t<-~m.Xu   c-f  ifa,  vv/K, 
rwvrv^i.  4*{  Tfc~*  hA^)   Ittsso    lis  U*sx*l~s/  Us    ~tX<AA~*t  /-^».    />-t^o>^>-»  />^t«~£v*~  A^Yvt^vJt ;   /n^/    f-w»  Lr»s*.,iZ%<i( 

Of  c      /        .      '  c7  -*<^5*- 


LAY  MORALS 

The  person  to  whom  this  writing  is  addres- 
sed is  any  young  man,  conscious  of  his  youth, 
conscious  of  vague  powers  and  qualities,  and 
fretting  at  the  bars  of  life.  Like  one  who 
comes  late  to  the  doors  of  the  theatre,  he  finds 
the  crowd  compact,  and  wanders  in  the  open. 
There  seems  no  entry  for  him  to  the  business 
or  the  serious  pleasures  of  the  human  world; 
and  he  is  asked  instead  to  mind  dry  and  some- 
what pointless  studies,  to  follow  arbitrary 
rules,  and  to  bear  with  patience  the  reproof  of 
persons  duller  than  himself.  He  is  capable 
of  the  finest  acts  and  sentiments,  which  some- 
how, in  his  present  circumstances,  seem  never 
to  be  in  season.  In  front  of  him,  in  the  thick 
of  the  world,  he  foresees  for  himself  a  leading 
and  romantic  part;  perhaps  not  falsely.  How 
to  behave  in  the  great  walks  of  life,  he  seems 
to  know ;  but  in  this  empty  vestibule,  where  he 
still  waits  his  turn,  there  seems  a  lack  of 
worthy  business. 

In  this  writing,  nothing  has  been  said  with 
the  design  of  pleasing  parents  and  guardians. 
I  am  afraid  the  work  will  not  be  thought  good 
enough  to  put  into  the  hands  of  youth  by  any 

[55] 


elder  friend,  and  if  the  young  men,  for  whom 
it  is  intended,  do  not  see  and  choose  it  for 
themselves,  it  will  not  improbably  remain  un- 
read. There  are  no  guides  in  life,  for  a 
thousand  reasons ;  but  for  this  reason  first,  that 
we  have  all  so  fallen  and  so  bemired  ourselves 
and  grown  so  bewildered  in  the  paths  of  this 
rude  labyrinth,  that  not  a  man  among  us 
knows  clearly  where  he  is  or  how  he  got  there. 
Hence  that  something  of  insincerity  to  which 
the  poor  clergyman,  forced  to  hold  up  a  cut 
and  dry  ideal,  is  condemned.  In  this  writing, 
I,  having  the  advantage  of  the  clergy,  shall 
try  only  to  be  honest;  a  hard  attempt  —  "We 
are  upon  an  undertaking  very  difficult."  And 
not  only  difficult,  but  responsible.  But  the 
responsibility  of  the  writer  discharges  not  a 
jot  of  the  responsibility  of  him  who  reads.  If 
you  go  wrong  and  are  guilty  of  cruel  and  un- 
manly acts,  and  come,  friendless  and  hating 
yourself,  to  the  end  of  a  detestable  career,  the 
reading  of  this  book  will  be  no  more  than  a 
pretext  for  cowards  to  allege.  "There  was  a 
nearer  neighbour  within,  who  was  incessantly 
telling  you  how  you  should  behave;  but  you 

[56] 


waited  for  the  neighbour  from  without  to  tell 
you  of  some  false,  easier  way." 

The  name  of  God  and  such  expressions  as 
"sin"  and  "the  soul"  have  been  allowed  to  find 
a  place  in  the  following  pages.  This  may  be 
galling  to  the  feelings  of  the  conscientious 
atheist;  that  strange  and  wooden  rabbi —  and 
never  so  strange  or  so  wooden  as  when  very 
young.  But  the  writer  would  have  him  to 
notice  that,  as  the  work  goes  on,  each  of  these 
expressions  has  its  sense  explained;  that  the 
sense  at  least  is  eternal,  being  founded  in  ex- 
perience; that  to  invent  new  phrases  from  old 
thoughts,  though  it  may  be  delicately  flatter- 
ing to  a  school  of  philosophy,  is  not  the  busi- 
ness of  a  man  who  loves  and  seeks  to  use  the 
purity  of  English  speech;  and  lastly  that  as 
the  strictest  Christians  read  and  find  improve- 
ment in  the  books  of  pagan  sages,  the  most 
delicate  unbeliever  may  come  perhaps  unin- 
jured from  the  perusal  of  the  name  of  God. 
This  is  perhaps  said  with  bitterness;  but  what 
can  be  more  bitter  than  to  find  man,  in  all  ages, 
returning  to  the  angry  follies  of  his  youth,  and 
each  fresh  movement  in  our  superficial  think- 
ing made  the  signal  for  some  renunciation  of 

[57] 


the  past?  Being  what  we  are,  the  descend- 
ants at  least  of  savages,  the  creatures  of  our 
fathers,  the  inheritors  of  every  nerve  and  fea- 
ture, the  true  wisdom  for  mankind  must  be 
ever  to  explain  and  to  subsume  in  wider  know- 
ledge, not  to  deny,  the  faith  and  experience  of 
predecessors.  It  is  thus  that  we  proceed;  but 
by  a  singular  infirmity,  we  cannot  return  to 
fill  our  baskets  from  the  forgotten  wealth  of 
antiquity,  without  casting  forth  and  treading 
under  foot  the  wisdom  of  some  later  age.  So 
it  is  in  art;  and  so  in  morals. 

Lastly,  besides  the  presence  of  some  good 
old  English  words,  the  book  is  inoffensive  to 
the  straitest  of  the  modern  sect.  It  is  truly 
secular  and  temporal,  costs  not  a  glance  be- 
yond the  little,  lit,  tumultuous  island  of  man's 
life  upon  the  vasty  darkness  of  eternity;  and 
still  forgetful  of  the  great  myths  or  more  ma- 
jestic and  mysterious  verities,  busies  itself 
close  at  hand  with  the  pleasures  and  prudence 
of  today.  There  is  much  in  common  to  all; 
upon  that  common  ground  the  arguments  are 
founded  and  from  that  common  store  the  ex- 
perience deduced. 

To  every  view  of  morals   there  are  two 

[58] 


sides :  what  is  demanded  by  the  man ;  what  is 
exacted  by  the  conditions  of  life.  Let  us  be- 
gin with  a  fragment  upon  either,  not  to  say 
what  is  new,  but  to  remind  ourselves  of  man's 
extraordinary  attributes  and  situation. 

[Between  the  foregoing  and  the  beginning 
of  the  work  as  printed,  this  unpublished  sen- 
tence appears  in  Mr.  Peabody's  draft  of  the 
MS.: 

"What  a  man  makes  of  this  world  for  him- 
self, and  what  view  of  it  he  teaches  to  aspir- 
ing youth,  gives  the  measure  of  what  we  may 
hope  from  him  in  thought  or  conduct,  and 
constitutes  what  we  call  that  man's  religion." 
And  the  following  resume  should  be  read 
after  the  closing  words  in  the  printed  text, 
"they  must  accept  and  deal  with  this  money." 
Thus,  with  what  is  printed  here,  and  what  has 
already  been  published,  we  have  the  essay 
complete,  as  Stevenson  intended  it: — ] 

And  now,  let  us  look  back  and  see  what  we 
have  reached  upon  this  practical  point  of 
money. 

[59] 


i  St. —  That  wealth  should  not  be  the  first 
object  in  life. 

2nd. —  That  only  so  much  money  as  he  has 
earned  by  services  to  mankind,  can  a  man  hon- 
estly spend  on  his  own  comfort  or  delight. 

3rd. — That  of  what  he  has  earned,  only  so 
much  as  he  can  spend  for  his  own  comfort  or 
delight,  is  his  to  spend  at  all ;  and  that  what- 
ever is  spent  by  carelessness  or  through  habit 
or  for  ostentation,  is  spent  dishonestly  and  to 
the  hurt  of  mankind. 

4th. —  That  whatever  we  have  in  our  hands 
which  we  have  not  earned,  or  which  we  can- 
not spend  to  profit  or  sincere  pleasure  on  our- 
selves, we  must  return  in  principal  or  interest, 
to  mankind  at  large;  to  some  other  persons  to 
whom  it  will  be  profitable  or  sincerely  pleas- 
ureable. 

And  5th. —  That  this  may  be  best  done  by 
helping  our  own  friends. 

Is  not  this  a  very  natural,  easy  and  plain- 
sailing  scheme  of  life?  Wealth  should  not  be 
the  first  object  in  life;  but  how  can  it,  except 
in  arid  and  contented  natures,  or  after  some 
violence  has  been  done  to  the  mind  externally 
in  the  misused  name  of  Prudence?    We  have 

[60] 


they  may  be  unfaithful  to  the  trust,  but  you  will  have 
done  your  best  and  told  them  on  what  a  solemn 
responsibility  they  must  accept  and  deal  with  this 
money.  .  .  . 

At  tbis  point  tbe  fragment  breaks  off.—[Eo.] 


\.  T'^i  "'fn1  rt     TV'  i  f*r  L  ii  p  it-  i :  ,r  ,v  vy   \&*    ILri  ffViittrti   ,  t(~UtJ^i 


a  thousand  instincts,  and  a  man  who  begins 
life  wisely  must  consider  them  all,  and  not 
only  that  which  leads  us  to  desire  wealth.  Is 
it  natural  to  buy  things  we  have  no  mind  to? 
To  eat  and  drink  till  we  are  sick?  And  is  it 
not  the  natural  motion  of  the  soul  to  communi- 
cate wealth  among  our  friends  and  make  them 
all  prosperous  in  our  prosperity? 


[61] 


THE  MASTER  OF  BALLANTRAE x 

Under  the  title  of  "Essays  and  Fragments" 
in  the  most  complete  edition  of  Stevenson's 
works  there  is  a  four-page  fragment  entitled 
"The  Genesis  of  The  Master  of  Ballantrae;" 
but,  strangely  enough,  like  the  published  frag- 
ment of  "Lay  Morals,"  it  lacks  both  the  head 
and  the  tail  —  two  rather  important  accom- 
paniments. In  its  direct  bearing  upon  one  of 
Stevenson's  greatest  novels  —  the  only  one  con- 
ceived and  mainly  written  in  America  —  this 
piece  must  be  credited  with  a  highly  import- 
ant position.  The  printed  text  begins,  "I  was 
walking  one  night  on  the  verandah — "  which, 
as  will  be  seen  by  the  accompanying  facsimile, 
is  far  down  on  the  first  page  of  the  MS.  The 
unpublished  opening  lines  are  decidedly 
"meaty,"  and  possess  a  human  interest  scarce- 
ly equalled  in  the  printed  portion.  More- 
over, they  show  that  the  piece  was  really  in- 
tended as  an  epilogue  to  the  story.  Then,  in 
the  printed  edition  the  curtain  is   suddenly 

1  At  Saranac  Lake  in  the  Adirondack  Mountains,  in  De- 
cember, 1887,  Stevenson  set  enthusiastically  to  work  upon  this 
romance,  which  was  not  completed  until  the  following  May, 
when  he  was  at  Honolulu.  It  first  appeared  in  print,  as  the 
"Author's  Edition,"  in  the  year  1888,  although  it  was  not  is- 
sued for  the  public  at  large  until  1889. 

[63] 


rung  down  in  the  middle  of  an  act,  without 
giving  Ephraim  Mackellar — one  of  the  im- 
portant characters  —  a  chance  to  make  an  ap- 
pearance. 

It  is  regrettable  that,  although  Mr.  Pea- 
body's  draft  of  the  MS.  carries  us  considerably 
farther  than  the  one  used  by  the  printer,  there 
still  seems  to  be  another  page  or  so  wanting. 
The  concluding  part  may  have  been  lost  or  de- 
stroyed; or  it  may  have  become  detached  and 
found  lodgment  with  some  collector  when 
Stevenson's  books,  manuscripts,  letters  and 
other  personal  effects  were  dispersed  through 
the  auction  room  several  years  ago.  If  ever 
it  comes  to  light  in  any  quarter  of  the  earth, 
it  is  to  be  hoped  that  it  will  find  its  way  back 
to  the  major  portion  from  which  it  became 
dismembered ;  thus  making  it  possible  at  some 
future  day  to  print  the  epilogue  in  its  com- 
pleteness. By  interposing  the  printed  frag- 
ment (which  appears  at  page  431,  Volume 
XXII,  of  the  Thistle  edition)  between  the 
two  parts  here  following,  the  reader  will  have 
the  work  as  complete  as  it  is  possible  to  make 
it,  for  the  present  at  least. 

[64] 


U»-    LfcV^    xi|**^*^   4£>-AdU.   U*-4^*^  f  1  tti   ^^-ICl-c^    (   U^^VO    iw  Aa^Cv 


NOTE  TO  "THE  MASTER  OF 
BALLANTRAE" 

An  account  of  how  a  story  arose  in  the 
writer's  mind,  from  and  towards  what  points 
the  course  of  invention  travelled,  what  facts 
were  utilized,  what  were  easy  and  what  hard, 
and  how  the  finished  work  looks  in  the  eyes 
of  its  begetter,  has  always  seemed  to  me  excel- 
lent reading  for  the  curious.  Placed  in  front, 
I  should  be  inclined  to  judge  it  an  imperti- 
nence; placed  as  a  rear  guard  to  the  volume, 
it  may  serve  a  useful  purpose  on  occasion. 
The  story  may  be  read,  and  it  may  lack  yet 
half  an  hour  of  your  accustomed  bedtime;  or 
you  may  have  bought  the  volume  to  beguile 
the  tedium  of  a  journey,  and  have  come  to  the 
last  page  some  way  short  of  your  expected 
destination;  at  such  time  no  one  would  care  to 
embark  on  matter  entirely  new,  and  yet  he 
might  be  ready  enough  to  dwell  a  little  long- 
er from  a  new  standpoint  on  the  same  train  of 
thought  which  he  has  been  following  so  long. 
The  magician  after  he  has  prepared  his  sleight 
of  hand  will  sometimes  afford  a  second,  and  a 
fresh,  pleasure  by  explaining  the  method  of 
his  dexterity.     As  some  such  afterpiece,  for 

[65] 


an  empty  moment,  it  is  hoped  this  note  may  be 
regarded. 

[At  this  point  the  printed  text  begins  with 
"I  was  walking  one  night  on  the  verandah  of 
a  small  house  in  which  I  lived,  outside  the 
hamlet  of  Saranac," —  (this  being  the  winter 
that  Stevenson  spent  at  Saranac  Lake,  N.  Y.), 
and  runs  along  substantially  the  same  as  the 
manuscript,  except  that  the  following  import- 
ant passage  was  omitted : — ] 

It  was  the  case  of  Marquis  of  Tallibardine 
that  first  struck  me;  the  situation  of  a  younger 
brother  succeeding  in  this  underhand,  irregu- 
lar fashion,  and  under  an  implied  contract  of 
seniority,  to  his  elder's  place  and  future, 
struck  me  as  so  full  of  bitterness,  and  the  men- 
tal relations  of  a  family  thus  circumstanced 
so  fruitful  of  misjudgment  and  domestic  ani- 
mosity, it  took  my  fancy  then  as  a  drama  in 
a  nutshell,  to  be  solved  between  four  persons 
and  within  four  walls ;  with  my  new  incident 
and  with  my  new  aim,  I  saw  myself,  and  re- 
joiced to  be,  committed  to  great  spaces  and 
voyages,  and  a  long  evolution  of  time.     But 

[66] 


in  the  matter  of  the  characters  involved,  I  de- 
termined to  adhere  to  the  original  four  actors. 
With  four  characters  —  two  brothers,  a  father, 
and  a  heroine  (all  nameless  but  in  a  deter- 
mined relation)  I  was  to  carry  the  reader  to 
and  fro  in  space  over  a  good  half  of  the  world, 
and  sustain  his  interest  in  time  through  the  ex- 
tent of  a  generation. 

[The  printed  fragment  ends  with  this  sen- 
tence: "I  know  not  if  I  have  done  him  [the 
Chevalier  Burke]  well,  though  his  moral  dis- 
sertations always  highly  entertained  me;  but  I 
own  I  have  been  surprised  to  find  that  he  re- 
minded some  critics  of  Barry  Lyndon  after 
all.  ..."  Then  from  this  point  the  un- 
printed  MS.  runs  on  as  follows: — ] 

Surely,  beyond  the  worsted  lace  of  his  gen- 
tility, and  a  trick  of  Celtic  boastfulness,  my 
poor  chevalier,  eminently  proud  of  his  degra- 
dation, unaffectedly  unconscious  of  his  gen- 
uine merit,  is  a  creature  utterly  distinct,  in  the 
essential  part  of  him,  from  the  brute  whom 
Thackeray  disinterred  out  of  the  Newgate 

[67] 


Calendar  and  set  re-existing,  for  the  time  of 
the  duration  of  the  English  language. 

The  need  of  a  confidant  for  Mr.  Henry  led 
to  the  introduction  of  Mackellar,  for  it  was 
only  to  a  servant  that  a  man  such  as  I  con- 
ceived Mr.  Henry,  could  unbosom;  and  no 
sooner  had  he  begun  to  take  on  lineament, 
than  I  perceived  the  uses  of  the  character,  and 
was  at  once  tempted  to  intrust  to  him  the  part 
of  spokesman.  Nothing  more  pleases  me  than 
for  one  of  my  puppets  to  display  himself  in 
his  own  language;  in  no  other  way  than  this  of 
the  dramatic  monologue,  are  humorous  and 
incongruous  traits  so  persuasively  presented. 
The  narration,  put  in  the  mouth  of  the  land 
steward,  would  supply,  as  if  by  the  way  and 
accidentally,  a  certain  subdued  element  of 
comedy,  much  to  be  desired,  and  scarce  other- 
wise, except  by  violence,  to  be  introduced. 
Besides  which,  the  device  enabled  me  to  view 
my  heroine  from  the  outside,  which  was  doub- 
ly desirable.  First,  and  generally,  because  I  am 
always  afraid  of  my  women,  which  are  not  ad- 
mired in  my  home  circle;  second,  and  partic- 
ularly, because  I  should  be  thus  enabled  to 
pass  over  without  realization  an  ugly  and  del- 

[68] 


icate  business,  —  the  master's  courtship  of  his 
brother's  wife.  Accordingly,  and  perfectly 
satisfied  with  myself,  I  hastily  wrote  and  re- 
wrote the  first  half  of  my  story,  down  to  the 
end  of  the  duel,  through  the  eyes  and  in  the 
words  of  the  good  Ephraim.  Cowardice  is 
always  punished;  I  had  no  sooner  got  this 
length,  I  had  no  sooner  learned  to  appreciate 
the  advantages  of  my  method,  than  I  was 
brought  face  to  face  with  its  defects  and  fell 
into  a  panic  fear  of  the  conclusion.  How, 
with  a  narrator  like  Mackellar,  should  I 
transact  the  melodrama  in  the  wilderness. 
How,  with  his  style,  so  full  of  disabilities,  at- 
tack a  passage  which  must  be  either  altogether 
seizing  or  altogether  silly  and  absurd?  The 
first  half  was  already  in  type,  when  I  made  up 
my  mind  to  have  it  thus  done,  and  recom- 
mence the  tale  in  the  third  person.  Friends 
advised,  one  this  way,  one  that;  my  publishers 
were  afraid  of  the  delay;  indolence  had 
doubtless  a  voice;  I  had  besides  a  natural  love 
for  the  documentary  method  in  narration;  and 
I  ended  by  committing  myself  to  the  imper- 
sonation of  Mackellar,  and  suffering  the  pub- 
lication to  proceed. 

[69] 


I  was  doubtless  right  and  wrong;  the  book 
has  suffered  and  has  gained  in  consequence; 
gained  in  relief  and  verisimilitude,  suffered 
in  fire,  force  and  (as  one  of  my  critics  has  well 
said)  in  "large  dramatic  rhythm."  The  same 
astute  and  kindly  judge  complains  of  "the 
dredging  machine  of  Mr.  Mackellar's  mem- 
ory, shooting  out  the  facts  bucketful  by  buck- 
etful;" and  I  understand  the  ground  of  his 
complaint,  although  my  sense  is  otherwise. 
The  realism  I  love  is  that  of  method ;  not  only 
that  all  in  a  story  may  possibly  have  come  to 
pass,  but  that  all  might  naturally  be  recorded 
—  a  realism  that  justifies  the  book  itself  as 
well  as  the  fable  it  commemorates. 


[70] 


THE  MERRY  MEN,  ETC. 

The  following  Preface,  although  entitled 
"The  Merry  Men,"  really  has  more  to  do  with 
the  volume  as  a  whole  than  with  the  title-story, 
and  deals  particularly  with  the  three  stories, 
"Will  o'  the  Mill,"  "Thrawn  Janet,"  and 
"Markheim,"  printed  in  the  collection.  In 
view  of  the  fact  that  Stevenson  was  more 
prone  to  find  fault  with  his  stories  than  to 
praise  them,  it  will  interest  his  readers  to 
know  that  he  "very  much  admired"  these 
three.  The  piece  certainly  reads  very  smooth- 
ly and  entertainingly,  and  it  seems  queer  that 
it  never  got  into  print.  It  ends  rather  abrupt- 
ly, but  there  is  nothing,  so  far  as  known,  to  in- 
dicate that  Stevenson  ever  extended  it  any 
farther.  In  fact  the  manner  of  its  ending  — 
in  about  the  middle  of  the  page  —  would  sig- 
nify that  he  did  not.  The  photographic  re- 
production of  the  first  page  of  the  MS.  shows 
that  he  had  considerable  difficulty  in  getting 
it  to  suit  him,  and  some  entertainment  may  be 
found  in  deciphering  the  cancelled  passages 
and  following  the  irregular  course  of  his  ini- 
tial thoughts. 

[71] 


If  there  was  any  one  branch  of  Stevenson's 
profession  in  which  he  delighted,  above  all 
others,  it  appears  to  have  been  that  of  writing 
prefaces.  In  this  congenial  occupation  he 
was  always  in  his  happiest  mood.  Indeed  his 
short,  good-humored  Preface  to  An  Inland 
Voyage  is  thought  by  some  to  be  one  of  the 
most  enjoyable  parts  of  that  book.  "A  pre- 
face," he  says,  "is  more  than  an  author  can  re- 
sist, for  it  is  the  reward  of  his  labors." 


[72] 


.) 


t^ — 


Y- 


I 


ffS^*-  w> 


RSrs 


^U_ 


k*l 


.jC*-V 


^■"V^ 


p  i — .    t\\y —  (^  ,  cx~-A   o.^-^.  h  .  <X^]  ,    e. 


H »\  l  (   U-   ^wt 


PREFACE  FOR  "THE  MERRY  MEN" 

I  am  given  to  understand  the  days  of  pre- 
faces are  now  quite  over,  and  those  who  still 
care  to  read  such  things  —  or  even  write  them 
—  a  despised  minority.  A  preface  then  is 
like  the  top  of  a  high  mountain,  seemingly  a 
spot  of  much  publicity,  truly  as  private  as  a 
chamber;  where  a  person  of  defective  ear  may 
stand  up,  in  the  view  of  several  counties  and 
sing  without  reproof.  Or  we  may  say  again 
that  what  a  man  writes  there  is  singly  for  him- 
self, like  those  loving  legends  and  beloved 
names  that  we  engrave  on  the  sea-sand  before 
the  return  of  the  flood. 

Nothing  is  more  agreeable  to  the  writer 
than  to  let  his  pen  move  ad  libitum  and  with- 
out destination;  careless  where  he  shall  pass 
by  or  whither,  if  anywhere,  he  shall  arrive.  I 
question  if  it  be  equally  pleasing  to  a  reader; 
but  in  a  preface  I  am  safe  from  their  intrusion 
and  may  run  on,  and  gratify  myself  —  and  to 
some  extent  gratify  my  publisher,  who  is  be- 
wailing the  thinness  of  the  volume  —  like  the 
singer  on  the  mountain  top,  without  offence. 

The  stories  here  got  together  are  somewhat 

[73] 


of  a  scratch  lot.  Three  of  them  seem  to  me 
very  good  and  in  the  absence  of  the  public,  I 
may  even  go  the  length  of  saying  that  I  very 
much  admire  them;  these  three  are  "Will  o' 
the  Mill,"  "Thrawn  Janet,"  and  "Markheim." 
"Thrawn  Janet"  has  two  defects;  it  is  true 
only  historically,  true  for  a  hill  parish  in  Scot- 
land in  old  days,  not  true  for  mankind  and 
the  world.  Poor  Mr.  Soulis's  faults  we  may 
equally  recognize  as  virtues;  and  feel  that  by 
his  conversion,  he  was  merely  coarsened;  and 
this,  although  the  story  carries  me  away  every 
time  I  read  it,  leaves  a  painful  feeling  on  the 
mind.  I  hope  I  should  admire  "Will  o'  the 
Mill"  and  "Markheim"  as  much,  if  they  had 
been  written  by  someone  else;  but  I  am  glad 
no  one  else  wrote  them. 

One  is  in  a  middle  state;  some  persons  of 
good  taste  finding  it  pizzicato  and  affected  to 
the  last  degree;  others  finding  in  it  much  gen- 
iality and  good  nature. 

This  Eileen  Amos,  first  under  that  name, 
and  more  recently  under  its  true  name,  Eileen 
Eanaid,  has  done  me  yeoman's  service.  First 
it  was  the  backbone  of  "The  Merry  Men," 
then  it  made  a  tolerable  figure  in  "Kidnap- 

[74] 


ped;"  and  now  (its  last  appearance)  it  is  to 
supply  the  present  volume  with  a  preface. 

The  author  sees  in  his  work  something  very 
different  from  the  reader;  the  two  parts  are 
incompatible;  that  unhappy  man  who  has 
written  and  rewritten  every  word  with  inky 
fingers,  and  then  passed  through  the  prolong- 
ed disgust  of  proof  sheets,  has  lost  all  touch 
with  his  own  literature.  They  are  presum- 
ably the  books  he  would  like  to  read,  since 
they  are  those  he  has  been  pleased  to  write; 
yet  he  can  never  read  them.  To  him  they 
speak  only  of  disappointment  and  defeat,  and 
are  the  monuments  of  failure.  I  have  long 
had  a  desire  to  read  Treasure  Island,  which 
cannot  be  gratified;  I  might  read  the  Rig 
Veda  in  the  original  —  never  Treasure  Island  ; 
and  think  of  the  sad  case  of  Mr.  Meredith 
who  can  never  read  Rhoda  Fleming,  Mr.  An- 
stey  who  can  never  read  A  Fallen  Idol,  or  Mr. 
Lang  who  is  debarred  from  the  Letters  to 
Dead  Authorsl 

Yet  there  is  an  intimate  pleasure,  hard  to 
describe,  and  quite  peculiar  to  the  writer  of 
imaginative  work.     It  is  in  some  sense  the  ful- 

[75] 


filment  of  his  life;  old  childish  day-dreams 
here  have  taken  shape, —  poignant  and  vague 
aspirations. 


[76] 


A  FRENCH  LEGEND,  Etc. 

The  following  piece,  found  among  Steven- 
son's manuscripts,  has  never  been  printed,  so 
far  as  we  are  able  to  discover.  It  may  have 
been  intended  to  go  in  some  more  extensive 
work,  though  there  is  no  evidence  to  warrant 
such  an  assumption,  and  we  therefore  give  it 
as  it  stands  in  the  original.  "The  district 
where  we  are,"  was  probably  Fontainebleau, 
and  the  manuscript  was  doubtless  written 
while  Stevenson  was  studying  in  France, — 
perhaps  in  1875. 


[77] 


A  FRENCH  LEGEND 

AND  THOUGHTS  ON  DEATH 

One  tale,  whether  it  be  legend  or  sober  his- 
tory, and  although  it  is  not  connected  with  the 
district  where  we  are,  serves  to  enhance  for 
the  mind  the  grandeur  of  the  forests  of  France, 
and  secures  us  in  the  thought  of  our  seclusion. 
When  the  young  Charles  Sixth  hunted  the 
stag  in  the  great  woods  of  Senlis,  one  was 
killed,  having  about  its  neck  a  collar  of  bronze 
and  these  words  engraved  upon  the  collar: 
"Caesar  mihi  hoc  donavit."  [Caesar  gave  me 
this.]  It  is  no  wonder  if  the  imagination  of 
the  time  was  troubled  by  this  occurrence,  and 
men  stood  almost  aghast  to  find  themselves 
thus  touch  hands  with  forgotten  ages.  Even 
for  us,  it  is  scarcely  with  idle  curiosity  that 
we  think  of  how  many  ages  this  stag  had  car- 
ried its  free  antlers  up  and  down  the  wood, 
and  how  many  summers  and  winters  shone 
and  snowed  upon  the  imperial  badge.  And 
if  the  extent  of  solemn  wood  can  thus  safe- 
guard a  tall  stag  from  the  horns  and  the  swift 
hounds  of  mighty  hunters,  sheltered  in  these, 
for  years,  solemn  patriarchs, —  bald,  dim  with 

[78] 


age,  bleared  and  faded,  and  overgrown  with 
strange  mosses  and  lichens,  terrible  with  their 
dull  life  of  centuries,  indifferent  while  the 
generations  were  succeeding  one  another,  and 
angry  multitudes  surging  and  yelling,  while 
kingdoms  change  hands, —  might  not  we  also 
elude,  for  some  great  space  of  time,  the  clutch 
of  the  thing,  White  Death,  who  hunts  us 
noiselessly  from  year  to  year?  Might  not  we 
also  play  hide-and-seek  in  these  far  groves 
with  all  the  pangs  and  trepidations  of  man's 
life,  and  elude  the  thing,  White  Death,  who 
hunts  us  noiselessly  from  year  to  year? 

For  this  is  the  desire  of  all  in  this;  and  even 
of  those  who  have  prepared  themselves  to  wel- 
come Death,  as  a  child,  after  a  long  day's 
noisy  pleasure  at  the  fair,  who  had  slipped 
away  from  his  party  and  wandered,  stunned 
and  joyful,  among  the  booths  and  barracks, 
gingerbread  and  shows,  and  beaten  cymbals  of 
the  fair,  darkness  at  last  growing  about  him 
and  weariness  and  a  little  fear  beginning  to 
take  possession  of  his  soul,  might  welcome  the 
severe  parent  who  comes  to  scold  and  lead  him 
home. 

[79] 


A  NOTE  AT  SEA— 1875 

This  manuscript  of  the  year  1875,  written 
before  Stevenson  had  ever  been  on  the  ocean, 
may  have  been  composed  (as  "the  big  billows" 
indicate)  during  a  very  rough  crossing  be- 
tween England  and  France;  or  in  a  reminis- 
cent mood,  it  may  have  been  written  on  terra 
firma.  It  is  in  any  event  a  very  notable  little 
manuscript,  and  most  probably  an  attempt  to- 
wards that  style  where  prose  takes  on  the  move- 
ment of  poetry.  Without  such  an  assump- 
tion we  come  to  the  most  singular  bit  of  writ- 
ing in  all  of  Stevenson  —  a  piece  of  prose  that 
makes  a  perfect  example  of  vers  libre.  To 
indicate  what  a  poem  Stevenson  (whether  un- 
consciously or  not)  wrote  in  this  prose  piece, 
the  text  is  given  in  the  following  pages,  first  in 
its  original  arrangement,  and  then  divided 
into  lines  of  verse.  It  should  be  added  that 
Stevenson  had  been  acquainted  with  the  work 
of  Walt  Whitman  for  some  years,  the  Leaves 
of  Grass  having,  as  he  said,  "tumbled  the 
world  upside  down"  for  him. 


G.  S.  H. 


[81] 


A  NOTE  AT  SEA 

In  the  hollow  bowels  of  the  ship  I  hear  the 
ponderous  engines  pant  and  trample.  The 
basin  gasps  and  baulks  like  an  uneasy  sleep- 
er, and  I  hear  the  broad  bows  tilt  with  the  big 
billows,  and  the  hollow  bosom  boom  against 
solid  walls  of  water,  and  the  great  sprays 
scourge  the  deck.  Forward  I  go  in  darkness 
with  all  this  turmoil  about  me.  And  yet  I 
know  that  on  deck  —  (And  the  whole  ship 
plunges  and  leaps  and  sinks  wildly  forward 
into  the  dark)  the  white  moon  lays  her  light 
on  the  black  sea,  and  here  and  there  along  the 
faint  primrose  rim  of  sky  faint  stars  and  sea 
lights  shine.  All  is  so  quiet  about  us ;  and  yet 
here  in  the  dark  I  lie  besieged  by  ghostly  and 
solemn  noises.  The  engine  goes  with  tiny 
trochees.  The  long  ship  makes  on  the  billows 
a  mad  barbaric  rhythm.  The  basin  gasps 
when  it  suits  it.  My  heart  beats  and  toils  in 
the  dark  midparts  of  my  body;  like  as  the  en- 
gine in  the  ship,  my  brain  toils. 


[82] 


A  NOTE  AT  SEA 

In  the  hollow  bowels  of  the  ship, 

I  hear  the  ponderous  engines  pant  and  trample. 

The  basin  gasps  and  baulks 

Like  an  uneasy  sleeper. 

And  I  hear  the  broad  bows  tilt  with  the  big  bil- 
lows, 

And  the  hollow  bosom  boom  against  solid  walls 
of  water, 

And  the  great  sprays  scourge  the  deck. 

Forward  I  go  in  darkness  with  all  this  turmoil 
about  me. 

And  yet  I  know  that  on  deck — 

(And  the  whole  ship  plunges  and  leaps 

And  sinks  wildly  forward  into  the  dark)  — 

The  white  moon  lays  her  light 

On  the  black  sea. 

And  here  and  there 

Along  the  faint  primrose  rim  of  sky 

Faint  stars  and  sea  lights  shine. 

All  is  so  quiet  about  us ; 

And  yet  here  in  the  dark  I  lie  besieged 

By  ghostly  and  solemn  noises. 

The  engine  goes  with  tiny  trochees. 

The  long  ship  makes  on  the  billows  a  mad  barbaric 
rhythm. 

The  basin  gasps  when  it  suits  it. 

[83] 


My  heart  beats  and  toils  in  the  dark  midparts  of 

my  body; 
Like  as  the  engine  in  the  ship, 
My  brain  toils. 


[84] 


A  NIGHT  IN  FRANCE— 1875 

There  can  be  little  question  of  unconscious 
use  of  metre  in  the  following  manuscript,  or  in 
the  one  immediately  preceding,  entitled  "A 
Note  at  Sea;"  and  the  identity  of  handwriting 
and  of  paper  (French  blue  tinted  paper,  com- 
ing from  a  notebook  or  sketchbook  such  as 
was  in  vogue  among  the  artists  of  France  of 
those  days  for  their  pencil  drawings)  seems  to 
establish  the  place  of  composition  as  Fontaine- 
bleau,  where  Stevenson  in  company  with  his 
cousin  Robert  Alan  Stevenson  was  engaged  in 
the  study  of  various  forms  of  verse  in  the 
spring  of  1875.  This  manuscript  is  not  in  the 
style  of  Stevenson's  prose,  although,  like  so 
much  of  his  writing,  it  is,  at  its  close,  full  of 
his  love  for  Scotland.  It  is  manifestly  an  ex- 
periment in  metrical  prose,  and  the  success  at- 
tained is,  some  will  think,  far  beyond  that 
achieved  by  Blackmore  in  passages  of  a  some- 
what similar  nature  in  Lorna  Doone.  Here 
again  we  have  an  instance  of  vers  libre  by 
Stevenson  (long  before  this  kind  of  poetry  had 
come  into  exaggerated  vogue),  as  the  reader 
can  readily  determine  for  himself  if  he  will 

[85] 


rearrange  the  piece  into  loosely  metrical  form, 
following  the  method  just  employed  with  "A 
Note  at  Sea." 

"G.  S.  H. 


[86] 


A  NIGHT  IN  FRANCE 

In  remote  thickets  toward  afternoon,  when 
the  wind  sounds  now  and  again  in  the  distance, 
and  the  butterflies  are  sown  by  faint  airs  here 
and  there  like  thistledown  (sown  and  carried 
away  again  by  the  faint  airs  like  thistle- 
down)— 

The  perfect  southern  moonlight  fills  the 
great  night;  along  the  coast  the  bare  peaks 
faint  and  dwindle  against  the  intense  blue  sky; 
and  far  up  on  the  glimmering  mountain  sides 
the  dark  woods  design  their  big  full  shapes  in 
black  fantastic  profile.  The  sea  trembles  with 
light;  white  hotels  and  villas  show  lit  win- 
dows far  along  the  curved  beach,  and  from 
above  envy  the  silent  stars.  The  strange  night 
sky- endues  itself  in  monstrous  space  over  all, 
the  large  moon  beams  forward.  The  still 
trees  stand  in  relief  aloof,  one  from  the  other 
with  the  light  all  about  them,  naked,  bare,  in 
the  moonlight. 

Up  in  the  room  the  piano  sounds  and  into 
the  southern  night,  note  follows  note,  chord 
follows  chord,  in  quaint,  sad,  northland  ca- 
dence.    Do  not  the  still  trees  wonder,  and  the 

[87] 


flat  bright  sea,  and  the  lonely  glimmering  hill- 
tops far  withdrawn  into  the  purple  sky?  For 
this  is  no  squeak  of  southern  fife,  no  light 
melody  of  provengal  farandole;  to  these  airs, 
brown  feet  never  tripped  on  the  warm  earth, 
nor  boatman  cheered  his  way  across  deep  mid- 
land waters.  Wild  and  shrill,  ring  out  the 
reels.  Dunbarton  drums  beat  bonny.  The 
wind  sounds  over  the  rainy  moorland;  Wan- 
dering Willie  is  far  from  home.  Clear  sad 
voices  sing  in  the  gray  dawn  sadly;  for  a  coun- 
try made  desolate,  for  the  bold  silver  that  shall 
no  more  clatter  forth  in  pay,  and  the  good 
King  that  shall  come  home  no  more.  The 
sun  sets  behind  Ben  Ledi.  Macleod's  wiz- 
ard flag  sallies  from  the  gray  castle.  Faint 
and  fair  in  the  misty  summer  afternoon,  reach 
out  the  purple  braes,  where  the  soft  cloud 
shadows  linger  and  dwindle.  At  home  by  the 
ingle  the  goodwife  darns  her  goodman's  gray 
breeks.  And  my  love  up  in  the  north  is  like 
the  red  red  rose. 

O  sound  of  the  wind  among  my  own  bleak 
hills!  the  snow  and  the  cold,  and  the  hard  thin 
faces  of  steadfast  serious  people.  The  boats 
go  out  at  even,  under  the  moon;  sail  by  sail 

[88] 


they  spread  on  the  great  uneven  sea;  at  morn, 
in  the  rain  plains,  boat  by  boat  comes  back 
with  its  glittering  burthen. 


[89] 


DRAFT  OF  A  PREFACE  FOR 
"TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY"— 1879 

The  first  paragraph  of  the  following  paper 
is  its  only  strictly  unpublished  part.  The  sub- 
stance of  the  rest  will  be  found,  in  a  consider- 
ably altered  form,  in  that  chapter  of  Travels 
with  a  Donkey,  entitled  aA  Night  Among  the 
Pines."  The  entire  manuscript  is  here  print- 
ed as  evidence  that,  although  the  original  edi- 
tion of  1879,  and  later  editions  of  Travels 
with  a  Donkey,  were  issued  without  any  pre- 
face, save  the  initial  brief  letter  to  Sidney  Col- 
vin,  the  author  probably  had,  as  so  often  in 
other  instances,  a  preface  in  mind;  and  then 
changing  his  intention  included  a  portion  of 
the  preface  matter  in  the  text  of  his  story. 
The  MS.  has  the  appearance  of  being  incom- 
plete, but  we  are  unable  to  ascertain  whether 
Stevenson  finished  it,  or  if  he  did  finish  it, 
what  became  of  the  remainder.  However, 
since  it  is  an  interesting  piece,  and  seems  to  be 
complete  as  far  as  it  goes,  we  give  it  as  it  ap- 
pears in  Mr.  Peabody's  draft  of  the  MS. — 


[91] 


PREFACE  FOR  "TRAVELS  WITH   A 
DONKEY" 

The  journey  which  this  little  book  is  to  nar- 
rate, was  very  agreeable  and  fortunate.  After 
a  few  rough  experiences,  my  donkey  led  me 
into  a  country  of  great  natural  amenity.  Un- 
usual and  pleasant  characters  and  incidents, 
trifling  in  themselves,  but  yet  delightful  to  ex- 
perience, met  me  continually  as  I  went. 

To  those  who  sleep  within  thick  walls, 
blindfolded  with  curtains,  and  roofed  in  from 
the  influences  of  heaven,  night  is  one  black 
and  uneventful  gulf  of  sleep.  But  in  the  open 
world,  under  the  stars  and  dews,  night,  like 
day,  passes  through  lively  vicissitudes,  and  the 
passing  hours  are  marked  by  changes  on  the 
face  of  Nature.  The  forest  breathes  out  new 
perfumes;  stars  rise  and  set;  the  company  of 
heaven  by  progressive  evolutions  counts  time's 
progress  like  a  clock.  And  there  is  one  cheer- 
ful hour  towards  morning,  unknown  to  those 
who  dwell  in  houses,  when  a  wakeful  influ- 
ence goes  abroad  over  the  sleeping  hemi- 
sphere. It  is  then  that  the  cock  first  crows, 
not  this  time  to  announce  the  dawn,  but  like 

•  [92] 


a  cheerful  watchman  speeding  the  wane  of 
night.  Cattle  awake  in  the  meadows;  sheep 
on  the  hillside  take  a  midnight  meal  and  lie 
down  to  sleep  again  in  a  fresh  lair.  And 
homeless  men,  who  have  lain  down  with  the 
fowls,  open  their  dim  eyes  and  behold  the 
beauty  of  the  night.  At  what  inaudible  sum- 
mons, by  what  gentle  touch  of  Nature,  are  all 
those  sleepers  thus  recalled  in  the  same  hour 
to  life?  Do  the  stars  rain  down  an  influence, 
or  do  we  share  a  thrill  of  mother  earth  below 
our  resting  bodies?  But  however  it  comes, 
those  who  sleep  afield  are  disturbed  in  their 
slumber,  "that  they  may  the  better  and  more 
sensibly  relish  it;"  they  are  given  a  moment  to 
look  upon  the  stars,  and  they  share  the  secret 
impulse  with  all  outdoor  creatures  in  their 
neighborhood.  When  that  moment  overtook 
me  among  the  pines,  I  wakened  thirsty.  Even 
shepherds  and  old  country  folk,  who  are 
the  deepest  read  in  such  arcana,  have  not  a 
guess  as  to  the  means  or  purpose  of  this  night- 
ly resurrection.  Towards  two  in  the  morn- 
ing, they  declare,  the  thing  takes  place;  and 
know  nor  inquire  farther.  And  at  least  it  is 
a  pleasant  incident.    And  there  is  a  special 

[93] 


pleasure  for  some  minds  in  the  reflection  that 
we  share  this  impulse  with  all  outdoor  crea- 
tures in  our  neighborhood,  and  are  become, 
for  the  time  being,  a  mere  kindly  animal  and 
a  sheep  of  Nature's  flock. 


It  is  an  excellent  thing  to  speak;  and  yet  it 
is  good  to  be  sometimes  silent.  I  am  often 
surprised  that  the  blind  are  not  greater  think- 
ers, for  they  dwell  in  a  natural  seclusion  and 
the  current  of  their  thought  is  not  perpetually 
interrupted  and  diverted  by  the  eyes. 


[94] 


PROTEST  ON  BEHALF  OF  BOER 
INDEPENDENCE— 1881 

In  1880  war  began  between  Great  Britain 
and  the  Boers,  despite  the  fact  that  Gladstone 
(who  had  regarded  England's  attitude  to- 
wards the  independence  of  the  latter  as  mor- 
ally iniquitous)  had  in  April  become  Prime 
Minister.  The  Proclamation  of  the  South 
African  Republic  in  December,  with  Kruger, 
Pretorious  and  Joubert  as  a  triumvirate,  to 
run  the  new  government,  was  followed  by  nu- 
merous clashes.  On  February  26,  1881,  Sir 
George  Colley,  the  British  High  Commis- 
sioner of  South  East  Africa,  led  the  British 
forces  up  Majuba  Hill,  a  mountain  of  strate- 
gic importance  near  the  Transvaal  border. 
The  next  day  the  British  were  routed  by  the 
Boers,  commanded  by  Joubert,  the  hill  was 
captured  and  Sir  George  Colley  slain  in  com- 
bat. This  defeat  stung  and  enraged  a  great 
part  of  England,  but  to  some  Englishmen  it 
brought  home  the  determination  of  the  Boers, 
and  even  in  the  hour  of  humiliation  they  pon- 
dered the  folly  of  freeborn  British  seeking  to 
deprive  the  freeborn  Dutch  of  independence 

[95] 


in  their  internal  affairs.  On  the  6th  of  March 
a  truce  was  concluded,  and  a  fortnight  later 
terms  of  peace  were  arranged,  allowing  for 
entire  internal  self-government  under  British 
sovereignty;  a  status  which  lasted  until  the 
Second  Boer  War  of  1899- 1900. 

It  was  during  the  weeks  intervening  be- 
tween the  British  defeat  and  the  conclusion  of 
the  terms  of  peace,  that  Stevenson,  then  at 
Davos,  drafted,  in  a  notebook  that  he  used 
over  a  period  of  many  years,  the  piece  here 
printed.  While  it  may  have  been  written 
with  some  high  British  official  in  mind,  the 
"Sir"  of  the  second  sentence  is  more  probably 
the  editor  of  the  Times  or  some  other  English 
newspaper.  Only  a  thorough  search  of  press 
files  can  absolutely  establish  whether  (per- 
haps using  a  nom-de-plume)  Stevenson  went 
further  than  this  preliminary  draft;  but  as  no 
mention  of  such  a  letter  appears  in  any  work 
relating  to  Stevenson,  it  seems  to  have  remain- 
ed unpublished  until  now.  Its  nobility  of 
spirit  is  manifest,  and  it  is  probably  in  the 
final  analysis,  the  highest  expression  of  true 
patriotism  in  all  of  Stevenson's  writings. 

G.  S.  H. 

[96] 


—. — V»JL    r. 


v.    f       I      C\  ■  *A     -  7     w. 


PROTEST  ON  BEHALF  OF  BOER 
INDEPENDENCE— 1881 

I  was  a  Jingo  when  Jingoism  was  in  sea- 
son, and  I  own  I  pall  myself  still  of  like  pas- 
sions with  the  Jingo.  But,  sir,  it  may  be  pos- 
sible for  you  to  understand  that  a  man  may  be 
a  Jingo  and  yet  a  man;  that  he  may  have  been 
a  Jingo  from  a  sense,  perhaps  mistaken,  of 
the  obligations,  the  greatness  and  the  danger 
of  his  native  land,  and  not  from  any  brutal 
greed  of  aggrandisement  or  cheap  love  of 
drums  and  regimental  columns.  A  man  may 
love  these  also,  and  be  honest.  But  there  often 
comes  a  time  and  the  changes  of  circum- 
stance, when  a  man  is  pleased  to  have  held 
certain  opinions  in  the  past,  that  he  may  de- 
nounce them  with  the  more  authority  in  the 
present.  I  was  not  ashamed  to  be  the  coun- 
tryman of  Jingoes;  but  I  am  beginning  to 
grow  ashamed  of  being  of  the  kin  of  those  who 
are  now  fighting — I  should  rather  say,  who 
are  now  sending  brave  men  to  fight — in  this 
unmanly  Transvaal  war.  It  is  neither  easy 
nor  needful  to  justify  these  changes  of  opin- 
ion.   We  all  awake  somewhat  late  to  a  sense 

[97] 


of  what  is  just;  and  it  is  ordinarily  by  some- 
thing merely  circumstantial  that  the  sense  is 
wakened.  A  man  may  have  been  right  or 
wrong  before,  but  it  adds  some  weight  to  his 
intense  conviction  if  his  former  thoughts  were 
of  a  different  and  even  contrary  spirit.  Now, 
sir,  I  am  at  the  present  hour  —  in  company,  I 
am  sure,  with  all  the  most  honourable  and 
considerate  of  my  countrymen — literally 
grilling  in  my  own  blood  about  this  wicked 
business.  It  is  no  affair  of  ours  if  the  Boers 
are  capable  of  self  government  or  not;  we 
have  made  it  sufficiently  plain  to  Europe  of 
late  days  that  we  ourselves  are  not  as  a  whole 
the  most  harmonious  nation  upon  earth.  That 
Colley  and  all  his  brave  fellows  are  gone  for- 
ever, that  we  have  been  beaten,  and  fairly 
beaten,  by  the  stalwart  little  state  are  not,  to 
my  mind,  arguments  for  any  prolongation  of 
the  war,  but  for  an  instant,  honourable  sub- 
mission. We  are  in  the  wrong,  or  all  that  we 
profess  is  false;  blood  has  been  shed,  glory 
lost,  and  I  fear,  honour  also.  But  if  any  hon- 
our yet  remains,  or  any  chivalry,  that  is  cer- 
tainly the  only  chivalrous  or  honourable 
course,  for  the  strong  to  accept  his  buffet  and 

[98] 


do  justice,  already  tardy,  to  the  weak  whom  he 
has  misused  and  who  has  so  crushingly  re- 
torted. Another  Majuba  hill,  with  the  re- 
sult reversed,  and  we  shall  treat,  I  hear;  but 
that  may  be  long  of  coming;  and  in  the  mean- 
while, many  of  our  poor  soldiers — many  of 
them  true  patriots  —  must  fall.  There  may 
come  a  time  in  the  history  of  England  —  for 
that  is  not  yet  concluded  —  when  she  also 
shall  come  to  be  oppressed  by  some  big  neigh- 
bor; and  if  I  may  not  say  there  is  a  God  in 
heaven,  I  may  say  at  least  there  is  a  justice  in 
the  chain  of  causes  that  shall  make  England 
drain  a  bucket  of  her  best  blood  for  every 
drop  she  now  exacts  from  the  Transvaal.  As 
if,  sir,  there  were  any  prestige  like  the  pres- 
tige of  being  just;  or  any  generosity  like  that 
of  owning  and  repairing  an  injustice;  as  if,  in 
this  troubled  time,  and  with  all  our  fair  [?] 
and  plucky  history,  there  were  any  course  left 
to  this  nation  but  to  hold  back  the  sword  of 
vengeance  and  bare  the  head  to  that  state,  pos- 
sibly enough  misguided,  whom  we  have  tried 
ineffectually  to  brutalisel 


[99] 


THE  STORY  OF  A  RECLUSE 
(i885?) 

This  story,  which  Stevenson  never  com- 
pleted, is  a  remarkably  interesting  fragment. 
It  relates  the  adventures  of  a  young  man,  the 
son  of  an  Edinburgh  minister,  who  after  a 
night  of  heavy  drinking  finds  himself  in  a 
woman's  bed.  Though  this  is  perhaps  a  piece 
of  fiction,  there  are  points  in  it  indicating  that 
Stevenson  had  himself  in  mind.  He  had  his 
hours  of  dissipation  in  the  early  Edinburgh 
days,  and  when  he  makes  the  hero  of  the  tale 
a  medical  student  with  a  strict,  religious 
father  he  was  probably  thinking  of  himself  as 
a  law  student,  with  a  similar  parent. 

Both  the  character  of  the  handwriting  and 
the  style  of  the  story  lead  to  the  belief  that 
Sevenson  wrote  this  tale  about  the  year  1885. 


[101] 


THE  STORY  OF  A  RECLUSE 

My  father  was  the  Rev.  John  Kirkwood  of 
Edinburgh,  a  man  very  well  known  for  the 
rigour  of  his  life  and  the  tenor  of  his  pulpit 
ministrations.  I  might  have  been  sometimes 
tempted  to  bless  Providence  for  this  honor- 
able origin,  had  not  I  been  forced  so  much 
more  often  to  deplore  the  harshness  of  my 
nurture.  I  have  no  children  of  my  own,  or 
none  that  I  saw  fit  to  educate,  so  perhaps 
speak  at  random;  yet  it  appears  my  father 
may  have  been  too  strict.  In  the  matter  of 
pocket-money,  he  gave  me  a  pittance,  insuffi- 
cient for  his  son's  position,  and  when,  upon 
one  occasion,  I  took  the  liberty  to  protest,  he 
brought  me  up  with  this  home  thrust  of  in- 
quiry: "Should  I  give  you  more,  Jamie,  will 
you  promise  me  it  shall  be  spent  as  I  should 
wish?"  I  did  not  answer  quickly,  but  when 
I  did,  it  was  truly:  "No,"  said  I.  He  gave 
an  impatient  jostle  of  his  shoulders,  and  turn- 
ed his  face  to  the  study  fire,  as  though  to  hide 
his  feelings  from  his  son.  Today,  however, 
they  are  very  clear  to  me;  and  I  know  how  he 
was  one  part  delighted  with  my  candour,  and 

[  102] 


three  parts  revolted  by  the  cynicism  of  my 
confession.  I  went  from  the  room  ere  he  had 
answered  in  any  form  of  speech;  and  I  went, 
I  must  acknowledge,  in  despair.  I  was  then 
two  and  twenty  years  of  age,  a  medical  stu- 
dent of  the  University,  already  somewhat  in- 
volved with  debt,  and  already  more  or  less 
(although  I  can  scarce  tell  how)  used  to  costly 
dissipations.  I  had  a  few  shillings  in  my 
pocket;  in  a  billiard  room  in  St.  Andrews 
Street  I  had  shortly  quadrupled  this  amount 
at  pyramids,  and  the  billiard  room  being  al- 
most next  door  a  certain  betting  agency,  I 
staked  the  amount  on  the  hazard  of  a  race. 
At  about  five  in  the  afternoon  of  the  next  day, 
I  was  the  possessor  of  some  thirty  pounds  — 
six  times  as  much  as  I  had  ever  dreamed  of 
spending.  I  was  not  a  bad  young  man,  al- 
though a  little  loose.  I  may  have  been  merry 
and  lazy;  until  that  cursed  night,  I  had  never 
known  what  it  was  to  be  overpowered  with 
drink;  so  it  is  possible  that  I  was  overpower- 
ed the  more  completely.  I  have  never  clear- 
ly been  aware  of  where  I  went  or  what  I  did, 
or  of  how  long  a  time  elapsed,  till  my  awak- 
ening.   The  night  was  dry,  dark  and  cold; 

[103] 


the  lamps  and  the  clean  pavements  and  bright 
stars  delighted  me;  I  went  before  me  with  a 
baseless  exultation  in  my  soul,  singing,  danc- 
ing, wavering  in  my  gait  with  the  most  airy 
inconsequence,  and  all  at  once  at  the  comer  of 
a  street,  which  I  can  still  dimly  recall,  the 
light  of  my  reason  went  out  and  the  thread  of 
memory  was  broken. 

I  came  to  myself  in  bed,  whether  it  was 
that  night  or  the  next  I  have  never  known, 
only  the  thirty  pounds  were  gone!  I  had  cer- 
tainly slept  some  while,  for  I  was  sober;  it 
was  not  yet  day,  for  I  was  aware  through  my 
half  closed  eyelids  of  the  light  of  a  gas  jet; 
and  I  had  undressed,  for  I  lay  in  linen.  Some 
little  time,  my  mind  hung  upon  the  brink  of 
consciousness;  and  then  with  a  start  of  recol- 
lection, recalling  the  beastly  state  to  which  I 
had  reduced  myself,  and  my  father's  strait- 
laced  opinions  and  conspicuous  position,  I  sat 
suddenly  up  in  bed.  As  I  did  so,  some  sort 
of  hamper  tore  apart  about  my  waist;  I  looked 
down  and  saw,  instead  of  my  night-shirt,  a 
woman's  chemise  copiously  laced  about  the 
sleeves  and  bosom.  I  sprang  to  my  feet, 
turned,  and  saw  myself  in  a  cheval  glass. 
[104] 


The  thing  fell  but  a  little  lower  than  my  knees 
it  was  of  a  smooth  and  soft  fabric;  the  lace 
very  fine,  the  sleeves  half  way  to  my  elbow. 
The  room  was  of  a  piece ;  the  table  well  sup- 
plied with  necessaries  of  the  toilet;  female 
dresses  hanging  upon  nails;  a  wardrobe  of 
some  light  varnished  wood  against  the  wall; 
a  foot  bath  in  the  corner.  It  was  not  my 
night-shirt ;  it  was  not  my  room ;  and  yet  by  its 
shape  and  the  position  of  the  window,  I  saw 
it  exactly  corresponded  with  mine;  and  that 
the  house  in  which  I  found  myself  must  be  the 
counterpart  of  my  father's.  On  the  floor  in  a 
heap  lay  my  clothes  as  I  had  taken  them  off; 
on  the  table  my  pass-key,  which  I  perfectly 
recognized.  The  same  architect,  employing 
the  same  locksmith,  had  built  two  identical 
houses  and  had  them  fitted  with  identical 
locks;  in  some  drunken  aberration  I  had  mis- 
taken the  door,  stumbled  into  the  wrong  house, 
mounted  to  the  wrong  room  and  sottishly  gone 
to  sleep  in  the  bed  of  some  young  lady.  I  hur- 
ried into  my  clothes,  quaking,  and  opened 
the  door. 

So  far  it  was  as  I  supposed;  the  stair,  the 
very  paint  was  of  the  same  design  as  at  my 

[105] 


father's,  only  instead  of  the  cloistral  quiet 
which  was  perennial  at  home,  there  rose  up  to 
my  ears  the  sound  of  empty  laughter  and  un- 
steady voices.  I  bent  over  the  rail,  and  look- 
ing down  and  listening,  when  a  door  opened 
below,  the  voices  reached  me  clearer.  I 
heard  more  than  one  cry  "good  night;"  and 
with  a  natural  instinct,  I  whipped  back  into 
the  room  I  had  just  left  and  closed  the  door 
behind  me. 

A  light  step  drew  rapidly  nearer  on  the 
stair;  fear  took  hold  of  me,  lest  I  should  be 
detected,  and  I  had  scarce  slipped  behind  the 
door,  when  it  opened  and  there  entered  a  girl 
of  about  my  own  age,  in  evening  dress,  black 
of  hair,  her  shoulders  naked,  a  rose  in  her 
bosom.  She  paused  as  she  came  in,  and  sigh- 
ed; with  her  back  still  turned  to  me,  she 
closed  the  door,  moved  toward  the  glass,  and 
looked  for  awhile  very  seriously  at  her  own 
image.  Once  more  she  sighed,  and  as  if  with 
a  sudden  impatience,  unclasped  her  bodice. 

Up  to  that  moment,  I  had  not  so  much  as 
formed  a  thought;  but  then  it  seemed  to  me 
that  I  was  bound  to  interfere.  "I  beg  your 
pardon  —  "  I  began,  and  paused. 

[106] 


She  turned  and  faced  me  without  a  word; 
bewilderment,  growing  surprise,  a  sudden  an- 
ger, followed  one  another  on  her  countenance. 
"What  on  earth — "  said  she,  and  paused  too. 

"Madam,"  I  said,  "for  the  love  of  God, 
make  no  mistake.  I  am  no  thief,  and  I  give 
you  my  word  I  am  a  gentleman.  I  do  not 
know  where  I  am;  I  have  been  vilely  drunken 
—  that  is  my  paltry  confession.  It  seems  that 
your  house  is  built  like  mine,  that  my  pass- 
key opens  your  lock,  and  that  your  room  is 
similarly  situate  to  mine.  How  or  when  I 
came  here,  the  Lord  knows;  but  I  awakened 
in  your  bed  five  minutes  since  —  and  here  I 
am.  It  is  ruin  to  me  if  I  am  found;  if  you 
can  help  me  out,  you  will  save  a  fellow  from  a 
dreadful  mess;  if  you  can't  —  or  won't  —  God 
help  me." 

"I  have  never  seen  you  before,"  she  said. 
"You  are  none  of  Manton's  friends." 

"I  never  even  heard  of  Manton,"  said  I.  "I 
tell  you  I  don't  know  where  I  am.     I  thought 

I  was  in Street,  No.  15  — Rev.  Dr. 

Kirkwood's,  that  is  my  father." 

"You  are  streets  away  from  that,"  she  said ; 

[  107] 


"You  are  in  the  Grange,  at  Manton  Jamie- 
son's.     You  are  not  fooling  me?" 

I  said  I  was  not.  "And  I  have  torn  your 
night-shirt,"  cried  I. 

She  picked  it  up,  and  suddenly  laughed, 
her  brow  for  the  first  time  becoming  cleared 
of  suspicion.  "Well,"  she  said,  "This  is  not 
like  a  thief.  But  how  could  you  have  got  in 
such  a  state?" 

"Oh!"  replied  I,  "the  great  affair  is  not  to 
get  in  such  a  state  again." 

"We  must  get  you  smuggled  out,"  said  she. 
"Can  you  get  out  of  the  window?" 

I  went  over  and  looked;  it  was  too  high. 
"Not  from  this  window,"  I  replied,  "it  will 
have  to  be  the  door." 

"The  trouble  is  that  Manton's  friends — " 
she  began,  "they  play  roulette  and  sometimes 
stay  late;  and  the  sooner  you  are  gone,  the  bet- 
ter.    Manton  must  not  see  you." 

"For  God's  sake,  not!"  I  cried. 

"I  was  not  thinking  of  you  in  the  least," 
she  said;  "I  was  thinking  of  myself."1 

1  At  this  point  Stevenson's  MS.  ends.  Why  he  left  his  hero 
in  such  a  bewildering  predicament,  or  how  he  intended  to  ex- 
tricate him,  must  forever  remain  a  matter  of  conjecture.  But 
since  it  was  not  Stevenson's  habit  to  desert  his  friends  in  time 

[108] 


["A  very  natural  instinct,"  I  said,  "but 
surely  you  understand  that  my  escape  from 
this  place  is  as  much  a  matter  of  your  safety 
as  it  is  mine.  You  must  admit  that  although 
we  both  know  that  I  am  an  unwelcome  intrud- 
er here,  it  would  be  no  less  difficult  for  you  to 
convince  Manton  of  that  fact  than  it  is  for  me 
to  understand  how  I  got  here." 

She  looked  almost  bewitching,  even  in  her 
distress,  as  she  stood  wringing  her  hands  and 
glancing  wildly  about,  now  at  me,  now  at  the 
door,  then  at  the  opposite  window,  which, 
apart  from  the  door,  appeared  to  be  the  only 
avenue  of  escape. 

"Who  is  Manton,  and  what  is  he  to  you?" 
I  ventured.     But  without  answering  she  ran  to 

of  need,  I  assume  that  he  must  have  forgotten  his  friend  Kirk- 
wood,  and  that  his  spirit  could  therefore  take  no  offense  at  hav- 
ing this  unlucky  young  man  rescued  from  a  highly  precarious 
situation,  in  which  he  must  otherwise  be  doomed  to  remain  for 
all  time;  a  situation,  moreover,  involving  not  only  great  dan- 
ger to  himself  but  much  painful  anxiety  to  his  ecclesiastical 
parent. 

Accordingly,  I  have  taken  the  liberty  of  assuming  the  office  of 
foster  godfather,  and  of  interposing  in  his  behalf,  even  at  the 
risk  of  the  consequences  that  usually  attend  outsiders  who  pre- 
sume to  meddle  in  family  affairs.  On  the  theory  that  we  may 
help  a  drunken  man  out  of  the  gutter  and  send  him  home  with- 
out incurring  the  obligation  of  marrying  him  off  and  looking 
after  him  the  balance  of  his  life,  I  have  liberated  the  present 
victim  of  untoward  circumstances  and  sent  him  home  to  shift 
for  himself  without  assuming  further  responsibility,  especially 
since  he  wa9  Stevenson's  hero,  not  mine.  —  H.  H.  H. 

[I09] 


the  door,  and  as  she  stood  listening  her  coun- 
tenance betokened  approaching  danger,  even 
before  she  spoke.  "He's  coming  up  the 
stairs!"  she  whispered  hoarsely.  "You  must 
get  out,  quick,  quick!     He'll  kill  you!" 

"Get  out —  how?  Would  you  have  me  jump 
out  the  window  to  a  certain  death  on  the  pave- 
ment below?" 

"Yes,  yes,  anything  rather  than  have  him 
find  you  here,"  she  said,  waving  one  hand 
frantically  behind  her  while  with  the  other 
she  grasped  the  latch.  I  being  the  one  at 
fault,  there  seemed  but  one  alternative  left  to 
me. 

"Very  well,  so  be  it,"  said  I.  "Lock  the 
door  till  I  can  gather  up  my  things,  and  I'll 
take  the  plunge.  It's  almost  certain  death, 
but  at  least  you  will  be  saved."  She  turned 
the  key  and  stood  with  her  back  to  the  door 
while  I  scurried  about  gathering  up  my  shoes, 
hat,  and  other  articles.  "Good  bye,  and  good 
luck  to  you,"  I  whispered  over  my  shoulder 
as  I  made  toward  the  window. 

"No,  no  —  wait!"  she  called.  "I  can't  let 
you  do  that;  it  will  be  sure  death.  I  could 
never  forgive  myself  for  being  such  a  coward. 

[no] 


We  are  both  innocent,  and  surely  God  will 
provide  some  other  way." 

I  confess  the  argument  appealed  to  me,  and 
it  required  no  further  coaxing  to  divert  me 
from  my  rash  purpose.  As  we  stood  looking 
at  each  other  I  thought  her  eyes  seemed  kinder 
than  before.  At  first  her  one  concern  had  been 
for  her  own  safety,  but  now  she  had  called  me 
back  and  she  seemed  to  be  racking  her  brain 
for  a  plan  whereby  I  might  be  saved  as  well 
as  herself. 

"You  are  no  coward,"  I  said ;  and  as  I  spoke 
we  heard  heavy  footsteps  approaching  in  the 
hall.  She  stared  at  me,  her  eyes  wide  with 
anxiety  and  fear.  Then  glancing  down  at  my 
stockinged  feet,  she  caught  her  breath  quickly 
and  her  countenance  lightened  as  if  by  a  sud- 
den inspiration. 

"Here,  quick!"  she  said.  "Stand  by  this 
door.  There's  a  window  on  the  second  floor," 
she  whispered,  "two  flights  down — to  the 
right,  to  the  right,  as  you  go  out!  When  he 
comes  in,  you  dash  out,  down  the  stairs,  and 
out  the  window." 

I  obeyed  involuntarily,  and  as  I  was  about 
to  remonstrate  that  I  could  not  escape  unseen, 

[in] 


she  unlocked  the  door,  then  with  the  agility  of 
a  panther  she  sprang  to  the  gas  jet  and  extin- 
guished the  light.  Just  as  the  door  opened  I 
heard  her  utter  a  piercing  scream  in  the  dark- 
ness, from  the  direction  of  the  window. 

"Help!  help!  Quick,  Manton!"  she  shout- 
ed, as  she  turned  over  some  article  of  furni- 
ture, which  sounded  like  a  piano  falling.  In 
the  same  instant  Manton's  bulky  form  brushed 
past  me  as  he  lunged  in  through  the  darkness; 
and  no  sooner  had  he  entered  than  I  slipped 
out  into  the  unlighted  hall.  As  I  was  feeling 
my  way  along  towards  the  stairs  I  heard  the 
girl  cry  out,  — "There's  a  man  in  my  room  — 
a  burglar,  a  thief  —  look  under  the  bed!  Lock 
the  door  and  light  the  gas,  quick!" 

After  some  difficulty  with  the  stairs  and 
landings  I  accomplished  my  descent  without 
serious  mishap,  and  on  reaching  the  second 
floor  I  groped  along  the  dark  hallway  in 
search  of  the  window,  which  at  length  I  found, 
and  by  good  fortune  it  happened  not  to  be 
locked.  I  opened  it,  peered  cautiously  out 
into  the  darkness  and  was  grateful  to  find  that 
it  opened  upon  a  garden  in  the  rear.  Out  I 
plunged,  and  landed  sprawling  in  the  midst 

[112] 


of  what  seemed  to  be  a  flower  bed.  In  a  mo- 
ment I  was  on  my  feet  and  finding  that  a 
sprained  wrist  was  the  only  painful  result  of 
my  awkward  landing,  I  scaled  the  garden  wall 
and  made  my  way  for  a  short  distance  under 
cover  of  its  shadow,  when  all  at  once  I  found 
myself  in  the  middle  of  a  familiar  street,  where 
I  stood  hesitating  for  a  moment,  my  shoes  and 
other  paraphernalia  still  clutched  tightly  un- 
der my  arm.  For  the  first  time,  the  situation 
struck  me  as  being  decidedly  ludicrous,  and  I 
laughed  outright.  "It  would  make  a  good 
story,"  I  thought  as  I  slipped  on  my  shoes  and 
strode  toward  home,  determined  never  to  get 
drunk  again.] 


["3] 


TUTUILA-i89i 

At  Tutuila,  a  South  Sea  Island  which  became 
a  portion  of  the  territory  of  the  United  States, 
Stevenson  spent  some  three  weeks  early  in 
1 89 1,  and  his  experiences  among  those  distant 
Samoans  were  interestingly  set  forth  in  a  man- 
uscript which  he  entitled  "Tutuila."  A  few 
random  excerpts  from  this  highly  important 
manuscript  were  used  by  Graham  Balfour  in 
his  "Life"  of  Stevenson  (edition  of  1901,  Vol- 
ume 2,  Page  96),  but  approximately  three- 
quarters  of  the  text — and  by  far  the  most  in- 
teresting part,  relating  to  the  inhabitants — was 
left  entirely  unpublished,  and  the  whole  piece 
is  now  for  the  first  time  given  in  its  complete- 
ness. 

It  is  quite  the  most  important  and  engaging 
piece  descriptive  of  Stevenson's  travels  that 
has  appeared  posthumously,  especially  in  view 
of  the  present  widespread  interest  in  the  South 
Sea  Islands. 


[»S] 


TUTUILA 

The  island  at  its  highest  point  is  nearly  sev- 
ered in  two  by  the  long  elbowed  harbour, 
about  half  a  mile  in  width,  cased  in  abrupt 
mountain-sides.  The  tongue  of  water  sleeps 
here  in  perfect  quiet,  and  laps  around  its  con- 
tinent with  the  flapping  wavelets  of  a  lake. 
The  wind  passes  overhead ;  day  and  night,  the 
scroll  of  trade-wind  clouds  is  unrolled  across 
the  sky,  and  now  in  vast  sculptured  masses, 
now  in  a  thin  drift  of  debris,  singular  shapes 
of  things,  protracted  and  deformed  beasts  and 
trees  and  heads  and  torsos  of  old  marbles, 
changing,  fainting  and  vanishing  even  as  they 
flee.  Below,  meanwhile,  the  harbour  lies  un- 
shaken, and  laps  idly  on  its  margin;  its  color 
is  green  like  a  forest  pool,  bright  in  the  shal- 
lows, dark  in  the  midst  with  the  reflected  sides 
of  woody  mountains.  At  times  a  flicker  of 
silver  breaks  the  uniformity,  miniature  white- 
caps  flashing  and  disappearing  on  the  sombre 
ground;  to  see  it  you  might  think  the  wind 
was  treading  on  and  tossing  the  flat  water;  but 
not  so — the  harbour  lies  unshaken,  and  the 
flickering  is  that  of  fishes. 

Right  in  the  wind's  eye  and  right  without 
[116] 


the  dawn  a  conspicuous  mountain  stands,  de- 
signed like  an  old  fort  or  castle,  with  naked, 
cliffy  sides,  and  a  green  head.  In  the  peep  of 
the  day,  the  mass  is  outlined  dimly;  as  the 
east  fires,  the  sharpness  of  the  silhouette  grows 
definite ;  and  through  all  the  chinks  of  the  high 
wood,  the  red  looks  through,  like  coals 
through  a  grate. 

From  the  other  end  of  the  harbour  and  at 
the  other  extreme  of  the  day,  when  the  sun  is 
down  and  the  night  beginning,  and  colors  and 
shapes  at  the  sea  level  are  already  compound- 
ed in  the  grayness  of  the  dusk,  the  same  peak 
retains  for  some  time  a  tinge  of  phantom  rose. 
The  so-called  hurricane  that  recently  made 
Samoa  famous  and  bestrewed  the  coasts  of 
Ufalu  with  the  bodies  of  white  seamen,  al- 
though it  spared  Pagopago,  raged  about  the 
summit  of  Pioa;  the  woods  were  stripped  in 
one  night  of  all  their  foliage,  and  the  summit 
on  the  morrow  stood  as  if  struck  by  a  sudden 
Autumn.  Thus  the  hill,  although  not  under 
1600  feet  by  measurement,  stands  like  a  cen- 
terpiece to  its  surroundings  and  is  the  stage 
and  herald  of  changes  in  the  weather.  Upon 
its  top  squalls  congregate,  take  strange  shapes 

[»7] 


and  seem  to  linger;  thence  suddenly  descend 
in  the  form  of  a  white  veil ;  the  surface  of  the 
lake  is  seen  to  whiten  under  the  verberation  of 
the  rain;  the  whiteness  approaches  more  swift- 
ly than  the  flight  of  birds;  and  in  a  moment 
the  walls  rattle  and  the  roof  resounds  under 
the  squall.  No  sooner  come  than  gone;  a 
moment  more  and  the  sun  smiles  again  upon 
the  dripping  forests. 

Last  night  I  was  awakened  before  midnight 
by  the  ship  rats  which  infest  the  shores  and 
invade  the  houses,  incredible  for  numbers  and 
boldness.  I  went  to  the  water's  edge;  the 
moon  was  at  the  zenith;  vast  fleecy  clouds 
were  traveling  overhead,  their  borders  frayed 
and  extended  as  usual  in  fantastic  arms  and 
promontories.  The  level  of  their  flight  is  not 
really  high;  it  only  seems  so.  The  trade-wind, 
although  so  strong  in  current,  is  but  a  shallow 
stream,  and  it  is  common  to  see,  beyond  and 
above  its  carry,  other  clouds  faring  on  other 
and  higher  winds.  As  I  looked,  the  skirt  of  a 
cloud  touched  upon  the  summit  of  Pioa  and 
seemed  to  hang  and  gather  there,  and  darken 
as  it  hung.  I  knew  the  climate,  fled  to  shelter, 
and  was  scarce  laid  down  again  upon  the  mat 

[118] 


before  the  squall  burst.  In  its  decline  I  heard 
the  sound  of  a  great  bell  rung  at  a  distance;  I 
did  not  think  there  had  been  a  bell  upon  the 
island.  I  thought  the  hour  a  strange  one  for 
the  ringing;  but  I  had  no  doubt  it  was  being 
rung  on  the  other  side  at  the  Catholic  mission, 
and  lay  there  listening,  and  thinking,  and  try- 
ing to  remember  which  of  the  bells  of  Edin- 
burgh sounded  the  same  note.  It  stopped  al- 
most with  the  squall.  Some  half  an  hour  af- 
terwards another  squall  struck  upon  the  house 
and  spouted  awhile  from  the  gutters  of  the 
corrugated  roof;  and  again,  with  its  decline, 
the  bell  began  to  sound  from  the  same  dis- 
tance. Then  I  laughed  at  myself,  and  this 
bell  resolved  into  an  eavesdrop  falling  on  a 
tin  close  by  my  head.  All  night  the  blows 
continued  at  brief  intervals.  Morning  came, 
and  showed  mists  on  all  the  mountain-tops,  a 
gray  and  yellow  dawn,  a  fresh  accumulation 
of  rain  imminent  on  the  summit  of  Pioa,  and 
the  whole  harbour  scene  stripped  of  its  tropic 
coloring,  and  wearing  the  appearance  of  a 
Scottish  loch. 

And  not  long  after,  as  I  was  writing  on  this 
page,  sure  enough,  from  the  far  shore  a  bell 

[»9] 


began  indeed  to  ring.  It  has  but  just  ceased ; 
boats  have  been  passing  the  harbour  in  the 
showers,  the  congregation  is  now  within,  and 
the  mass  begun.  How  many  different  stories 
are  told  by  that  drum  of  tempered  iron!  To 
the  natives,  a  new,  strange,  outlandish  theory; 
to  us  of  Europe,  redolent  of  home;  in  the  ears 
of  the  priests,  calling  up  memories  of  French 
and  Flemish  cities,  and  perhaps  some  carved 
cathedral,  and  the  pomp  of  celebrations;  in 
mine,  talking  of  the  gray  metropolis  of  the 
north,  of  a  certain  village  on  a  stream,  of  re- 
mote churches,  rustic  congregations,  and  of 
vanished  faces  and  silent  tongues. 

Long  ago,  say  the  natives,  the  houses  were 
continuous  around  the  harbour;  they  are  now 
shrunk  into  some  half  a  dozen  isolated  ham- 
lets; and  at  night  it  is  only  here  and  there 
around  the  shores  that  a  light  twinkles.  En- 
demic war,  the  touch  of  the  white,  perhaps 
some  climacteric  age  has  thus  reduced  the 
denizens.  The  main  village  is  at  the  head  of 
the  harbour  and  looks  straight  up  the  greatest 
length  to  Pioa.  At  the  upper  end  the  chief 
lives,  his  village  commanding  a  long  view  of 
the  harbor.     Thither  we  went  at  evening  in 

[120] 


the  consul's  boat.  A  path  girdles  the  water 
side,  a  rude  enough  causeway,  which  falls 
down  if  you  sit  upon  its  margin,  yet  makes 
passage  easy.  The  hill  ascends  abruptly  and 
makes  a  rough  edge  of  forest  in  the  sky;  the 
path,  as  it  follows  on  by  promontory  and  re- 
cess, now  plunges  you  in  breathless  heat,  now 
brings  you  forth  in  a  broad  draught  of  air; 
from  the  hottest  corner  of  a  sun  patch  of 
sugarcane,  you  may  look  but  a  little  way  up 
the  hill  and  see  whirling  fans  of  palm;  from 
the  bottom  of  some  sandy  cove,  where  the  path 
is  overhung  with  rocks  and  embowered  in 
overhanging  trees,  you  may  look  but  a  little 
forth  and  see  the  leaves  toss  in  the  breeze  in 
the  next  cape.  This  perpetual  out  and  in,  and 
change  of  scene  and  climate,  entertains  the 
mind.  At  times,  besides,  the  mountain  opens 
and  you  may  look  up  the  devious  narrow  cleft 
of  a  stream  until  it  winds  from  sight;  at  times 
on  the  long  flat  sands  you  will  see  women 
fishing,  or  they  may  wade  ashore,  their  wet 
raiment  clinging  to  their  stalwart  figures,  and 
as  you  pass  on  the  narrow  causeway,  stand 
knee-deep  and  pass  you  a  salutation;  or  else  a 
canoe  goes  by  with  some  gay  dresses;  or  two 

[121] 


or  three  whaleboats,  with  their  lint-white 
sails,  go  skimming  by  upon  a  race.  The  last 
cape  of  the  main  harbour  is  at  Goat  Island; 
when  you  turn  it  you  see  the  heads,  the  white 
surf  flying,  and  the  open  ocean  lying  blue  be- 
tween. A  long  beach  runs  here  from  scat- 
tered houses;  one  of  them  falling  in  ruins 
marks  the  site  of  a  decayed  village.  Two 
streams  here  run  into  the  sea;  inconsiderable 
mounds,  easy  to  be  overleapt,  such  as  can  alone 
grow  up  in  an  isle  so  narrow,  steep  and 
crooked.  Here  upon  the  beach  we  meet  a 
boy,  an  old  friend  and  satellite,  who  loves  to 
sit  with  us  on  the  balcony;  he  joins  himself  to 
us  and  presently  he  is  carrying  my  wet  lava- 
lava  and  towel.  At  the  far  end  of  the  beach, 
beyond  the  houses;  we  sat  on  the  sand,  and  with 
the  common  instinct  of  all  ages  and  races  of 
man,  elderly  white  folk,  an  eight-year-old 
Samoan  boy  began  to  dig  away  the  sand. 
Mana  is  the  boy's  name ;  he  is  a  rather  sickly, 
shrewd,  gentlemanly  creature  whose  pleasant 
manners  have  engaged  us  heretofore.  The 
design  of  a  ship  is  nothing  new  to  us;  on  the 
same  walk  we  had  already  passed  an  elaborate 
section  of  a  ship  of  war  showing  the  screw 

[122] 


and  the  smoke  stack  descending  to  the  keel. 
But  Mana's  ship  is  particularly  intended  to 
be  ours,  and  his  representation  is  recommend- 
ed to  our  notice  by  portraits  of  ourselves. 
Here  is  the  judge,  here  is  the  land-surveyor 
and  here  is  the  Writer  of  Tales  —  and  where 
is  Mana?  Mana  was  immediately  added  at 
the  masthead — "at  work"  —  the  artist  added 
proudly.  Such  pictures  and  such  talk  are 
common  to  all  races  at  that  age ;  but  now  Mana 
begins  to  model  the  human  figure  in  relief, 
and  it  was  not  long  before  the  precocious 
youth  had  left  us  speechless,  or  leaves  me  rath- 
er without  words  to  tell  of  what  he  drew  and 
said.  Not  so  much  that  he  proved  himself  an 
indecent  designer,  is  remarkable,  but  that  he 
had  no  shame  or  fear  before  his  elders.  I 
have  seen  the  like  done  by  children  little  older 
in  what  is  called  God-fearing  England;  but  I 
can  not  remember  that  they  would  have  ex- 
hibited their  works  with  confidence. 

The  overhanging  rock  and  tree,  the  strong 
smell  of  brine  as  you  turn  it,  the  louder  sound 
not  of  the  wind  only,  but  of  the  sea.  At 
morning  the  birds  from  either  hand  of  the 
harbour. 

[123] 


The  Tanpo  Cleopatra,  such  was  the  name 
we  gave  her,  as  her  face  and  bearing  claimed 
for  her,  was  not  by  rights  a  Tanpo,  for  she 
was  married,  and  the  leader  in  the  village 
dance  must  be  a  maid.  But  the  Tanpo  elect 
was  young,  a  church  member  and  not  suffered 
to  join  in  the  dances,  so  that  the  reason  of  her 
election  seemed  to  me  far  from  obvious,  and 
Cleop.  continued  to  officiate.  A  nobler  wo- 
man it  is  scarce  possible  to  conceive,  being 
shaped  like  a  divinity  upon  huge  lines,  and 
with  a  countenance  of  an  Egyptian  cast  and 
with  an  expression  of  dignity  and  even  scorn 
that  well  became  her  head  and  her  strange 
flattened  profile.  For  the  dance,  she  wore 
on  her  head  a  sort  of  coronet  that  gave  her  the 
air  of  a  drawing  room  at  home,  and  vastly  set 
off  her  beauty.  The  rest  of  her  costume,  the 
red  necklaces,  the  kilt  of  fine  mat,  the  little 
tabard  of  transparent  net  that  hung  back  and 
front  upon  her  shoulders,  her  great  bare  arms 
and  legs,  were  pure  Samoan,  and  rather  con- 
trasted with  the  effect  of  the  drawing  room 
coronet.  She  sat  in  the  midst,  two  girls  on 
one  side  of  her,  three  on  the  other;  the  six 
were  all  trained  exquisitely,  their  movements 

[124] 


graceful  in  themselves  and  exquisitely  timid. 
The  reaching  of  arms  I  never  saw  so  happily 
significant,  and  the  strange  trick  of  Cleop.  to 
sing  with  her  eyes  shut  and  a  curious,  arrogant 
smile  upon  her  face  added  a  note  of  mystery 
to  the  accustomed  business.  The  house  was 
full  of  Samoan  spectators,  children  of  all  ages 
among  others,  who  soon  began  to  join  in  the 
singing  and  beat  time.  When  the  indecent 
part  came  it  was  singular  to  look  about  on  all 
these  shaven  heads  of  children  wagging  and 
their  little  hands  clapping  the  tattoo  to  such 
an  unsuitable  and  ugly  business.  I  was  sorry 
to  have  Cleop.  taking  part  in  such  a  show, 
though  her  part  was  the  more  decent,  though 
the  principal.  No  sense  of  shame  in  this  race 
is  the  word  of  the  superficial,  but  the  point  of 
the  indecent  dance  is  to  trifle  with  the  sense 
of  shame;  and  that  very  particularity  that  the 
chief  actor  should  be  a  maid  further  discloses 
the  corrupt  element  which  has  created  and  so 
much  loves  this  diversion;  for  it  is  useless  to 
speak,  the  Samoan  loves  the  business  like  pie. 
In  such  an  atmosphere  our  young  companion 
had  grown  up. 
Thursday  about  nine  on  board  the  Nukuno- 

[125] 


no  —  the  judge,  Tusitala,  Lloyd,  Swedish  cap- 
tain, Nova  Scotian  mate  (with  Nova  Scotian 
stories)  Chinese  cook,  black  French  cook  from 
Bourbon,  one  hireling,  one  Tangan  half  caste, 
one  Samoan  half  caste  interpreter,  one  black 
boy.  Hard  work  to  get  under  way,  beating 
to  and  fro  under  Pioa  across  the  great  cool 
languid  gush  of  sea  air  through  the  harbour 
mouth  and  the  vast,  oily-backed  swells.  The 
surf  on  the  east  end  made  wonderful  water- 
works. As  we  made  one  bound  just  inside  it, 
we  made  a  breach  on  Whale  Rock,  the  head  of 
it  toppled  and  fell,  the  green  sides  of  the  har- 
bour echoed  with  the  report,  and  the  sea  rose 
all  about  the  rock  like  the  sides  of  a  bowl. 
When  we  got  outside  at  last  the  blow  holes 
along  the  coast  were  spouting  high,  the  spray 
of  the  surf  hung  in  air  and  blew  up  the  moun- 
tains; the  Nukunono  soared  up  and  down  like 
a  sea  bird;  but  the  breeze  fell  dead.  Pioa 
and  the  harbour  had  been  making  a  little  in- 
tricate belt  of  weather  for  themselves;  half  a 
mile  outside,  stagnation  ruled  and  deepened. 
The  clouds  blackened  towards  afternoon,  and 
standing  round  the  horizon  in  long  cold  rows 
of  pillars,  hills  and  statues,  without  motion, 

[126] 


the  schooner  slumbered,  and  kept  the  skipper 
awake  by  threatening  to  go  on  the  other  tack. 
Long  ere  we  came  out  of  the  harbour  the  cook, 
the  gallant,  diplomatic,  admired,  lay  prostrate 
like  a  broken  doll;  and  lifted  his  face  no  long- 
er; the  interpreter  collapsed  in  turn,  not  whol- 
ly but  to  a  state  of  genteel  silence  and  muddle- 
ment,  in  which  he  was  useless  as  a  gnome ;  the 
judge,  — but  let  us  respect  his  ermine.  Night 
fell;  Pioa  and  Mirtie  Peak  stood  crowned 
with  clouds  which  were  lit  up  at  times  in  the 
night  like  fantastic  electric  bowls;  the  moon 
rose  late,  a  ragged  end  of  a  moon  brown  on  one 
side  like  burned  paper;  and  presently  the  day 
began  to  follow  her,  and  there  was  Tutuila 
blurred  with  a  succession  of  fine  rain  showers 
and  the  mouth  of  Pagopago  showing  like  a 
chamber  full  of  smoke;  but  the  sea  being  un- 
der an  unmitigated  blaze  of  day,  and  sur- 
rounded along  all  the  visible  horizon  with  the 
same  long  drawn  series  of  frozen,  windless 
cloud  peaks.  There  is  thought  to  be  an  east- 
erly set;  we  saw  little  of  it;  steadily  we  drew 
westward,  the  mouth  of  Pagopago  closed, 
Mirtie  Peak  moved  past  us,  past  us  the  low 
shores  landmarked  with  blow  holes;  we  are 

[  127  ] 


tossing  at  last  off  the  cliffy  lee  end  of  the  isle; 
and  it  was  near  noon  when  we  decided  to  try 
back  for  Pagopago.  In  the  afternoon  this 
too  dwindled  out  of  the  sphere  of  practical 
politics;  we  tossed  overboard  the  little  ship's 
boat,  a  couple  of  men  were  put  into  her;  by 
common  consent  the  cook  (for  whose  life  we 
began  to  entertain  fears)  was  helped  after, 
whence  he  fell  into  the  stern  sheets,  helpless; 
and  they  pulled  away  for  the  harbour  mouth. 
We  lay  and  watched  the  sun  go  down,  an 
alleviation  anxiously  expected.  It  sank  with 
strange  pomp  of  color,  in  a  world  of  peaked 
cloud.  Long  after  it  was  down,  arrows  of 
blue  radiated  upward,  faded  one  by  one,  until 
at  last  one  only  lingered  and  grew  more  dark- 
ly blue  up  against  a  heaven  of  deeper  rose;  the 
sea  meanwhile  heaved  multi-colored;  here 
flaked  with  fire  and  azure,  there  fallen  in  a 
blinding  pallor.  The  sharp  peaks  of  the 
isle  stood  out  against  the  fading  heavens;  they 
were  of  a  color  deep  as  black,  and  rich  as 
crimson,  for  which  we  tried  vainly  to  find  a 
name;  above  them,  every  here  and  there,  tall, 
isolated  clouds  stood  and  had  characters  like 
Punch  and  Judy  puppets,  tall  double-faced 

[128] 


Januses,  dogs  begging,  bears  with  ragged  per- 
forated minarets  —  a  singular  array,  designed, 
it  would  appear,  for  mirth,  yet,  as  we  beheld 
them  from  our  heaving  ship,  rather  striking 
awe.  The  dusk  slowly  deepened;  we  ran  a 
light  up  in  the  fore  rigging;  it  was  our  Mau- 
galai  [?]  lantern,  the  schooner  (true  to  the 
S.  S.  character)  had  none.  Presently  after, 
the  sound  of  oars  was  heard ;  it  was  a  boat  go- 
ing sharking,  and  from  them  we  had  the  wel- 
come intelligence  that  our  moribund  cook  was 
got  ashore  alive;  and  the  consular  boat  was 
even  now  upon  the  way  to  rescue  us.  It  was 
black  night,  there  was  nothing  visible  but  the 
stars  and  the  sharp  mountains,  when  the  sound 
of  singing  sprang  up  in  the  midst  of  the  sea. 
It  was  not  very  tuneful,  but  heralded  the  ap- 
proach of  the  rescue  party.  We  were  on 
board  with  our  goods  and  had  got  the  boat 
clear  of  the  dangerous  and  lively  neighbor- 
hood of  the  schooner;  she  showed  for  a  mo- 
ment, looking  picturesque,  then  vanished  as 
by  enchantment;  and  we  [line  here  is  unde- 
cipherable'] a  long  way  in;  steering  for  the 
priest's  lig^ht  by  west  Pioa;  a  long  while  in 
silence,  broken  only  by  one  song  in  which  our 

[129] 


boatmen  in  the  reiterative  native  style  pro- 
claimed their  view  that  it  was  a  bad  thing  for 
whites  to  lie  with  Samoans,  and  vice  versa. 
Then  suddenly  the  voice  of  the  island  rose; 
a  sullen  clamor  of  surf  sinking  again  to  si- 
lence, rising  again  louder  and  longer,  till  it 
became  permanent.  This  solemn  greeting 
moved  us  all  extremely.  Yet  a  long  while 
before  we  were  fairly  in  the  jaws  of  the  har- 
bour, of  a  sudden  the  sweet,  clean  smell  of  the 
sea  was  gone;  there  fell  upon  the  boat  instead 
a  flat,  acrid  and  rather  stifling  odor  of  damp ; 
it  had  been  raining  much  of  the  day,  the 
woods  were  all  quite  moist.  The  starlight 
was  very  bright,  but  it  showed  not  far;  the 
immediate  sea  beamed  plain,  the  hills  and 
farther  waters  (somewhere  they  drenched 
along  the  sky)  being  indecipherable,  and  the 
harbour  itself  yawned  before  us  like  the  mouth 
of  a  cave.  The  priest's  light  which  had  van- 
ished for  a  while  hid  by  the  higher  [  .  .  .  " 
in  the  harbour  mouth  now  reappeared,  and  we 
began  to  strain  our  eyes  and  interrogate  our 
memories.  Where  was  the  reef?  We  were 
speaking  low  in  the  dark  boat  when  of  a  sud- 
den, not  two  hundred  yards  away,  the  reef 

[130] 


itself  gave  tongue,  a  wave  broke,  the  moun- 
tains answered,  the  silence  returned.  It  was 
about  nine  when  we  got  ashore  again  from 
the  voyage  to  Mannia  to  find  the  cook  already 
much  revived,  to  see  the  judge  return  at  a 
bound  to  his  customary  affability  and  gaiety. 
Annuu.  —  The  low  end  of  the  island,  all 
village  and  elaborately  managed  plantations; 
two  [hundred?]  souls,  sixteen  tons  of  copra  a 
year,  abundance  of  food.  The  sea  breaks  low 
in  front,  and  from  the  opposite  side  of  the 
channel  the  reverberation  of  the  surf  about 
Tutuila  comes  back.  To  the  seaward  end  of 
the  isle  the  theatre  of  low  hills  inclines  some 
third  part  of  its  surface;  the  amphitheatre  has 
much  the  air  of  an  old  crater,  very  wide  and 
low,  the  bottom  occupied  by  flat  green  marsh, 
and  the  midst  by  a  blue  mere;  crowds  of  wild 
duck  inhabit  this;  and  the  water  of  the  lake 
is  said  to  be  red  and  to  redden  bathers.  We 
reached  the  western  summit  of  this  basin  by  a 
low  place  shelved  in  wood;  our  way  was  still 
in  the  midst  of  woods,  so  that  we  had  little 
idea  of  the  nature  of  the  country,  only  walked 
in  airless  heat  among  cocoanuts  and  great  ipis 
dark  as  ivy  and  rugged  as  chestnuts.     From  a 

[131] 


little  in  front  sudden  crepitations  of  surf  be- 
gan to  strike  at  intervals  upon  our  ears,  then 
came  a  draught  of  air  striking  the  foliage ;  and 
the  next  moment  the  trees  parted  and  we 
stepped  forth  into  the  wind  and  the  view  of 
the  sea.  In  this  place  the  circuit  of  the  hills 
is  broken,  the  marsh  empties  itself  by  a  low 
ditch,  the  freshwater  is  spread  in  a  shallow 
pool  along  the  top  of  seaside  walks,  where 
the  splashing  of  the  surf  makes  it  brackish. 
On  either  hand  the  broken  circuit  of  the  hills 
impends  in  cliffs.  Right  in  front  of  the  cove, 
which  is  full  of  mighty  whirl  and  sudden 
sounds  of  the  surge,  looks  sixty  miles  in  the 
wind's  eye  to  where  Mannia  lies;  and  on  the 
left  hand  two  flat  stones,  like  great  lizards 
couchant,  lie  parallel  along  the  top  of  a  flat 
rock;  their  mouths  (to  an  ardent  fancy)  might 
seem  open;  their  eyes  are  fixed  upon  the  dis- 
tant islands.  Taia  told  us  they  were  watching 
the  boats;  they  were  left  behind,  they  were 
crying  aloud  for  that  desired  destination. 
When  they  found  their  raft  was  broken  they 
said,  "They  would  not  die  and  get  rotten ;  let 
us  turn  into  stones  here  so  that  we  may  look 
forever   at   Mannia."     The  two   "Heads  of 

[132] 


Families"  is  what  they  are  called,  and  from 
immemorial  times  they  had  been  adored  with 
offerings  of  food.  It  is  perhaps  these  that 
give  its  original  sanctity  to  this  bold  piece  of 
coast;  why  that  should  all  be  turned  to  love, 
why  this  should  be  a  kind  of  Island  Cyprus  — 
I  don't  quite  see.  On  the  top  of  the  sheer 
opposite  cliff  a  stack  of  cocoa  palms  and  a 
single  tao  hang  imminent.  If  a  man  desired 
a  woman  he  decoyed  her  towards  this  place; 
and  here,  if  she  were  coy  she  would  refuse  to 
go  farther.  He  led  her  to  the  margin  of  that 
cliff  and  hung  her  over.  "Will  you  go  with 
me  to  the  Puatannopo  —  the  Place  of  Mary 
Puas?  If  you  will  not,  over  you  go."  Fear 
would  triumph ;  it  seems  she  must  then  be  true 
to  her  word,  and  the  pair  continued  their  jour- 
ney. Up  the  steep  bowl-like  flank  of  the  cliff 
above  the  "Heads  of  Families,"  the  way  lay; 
presently  again  it  came  near  to  the  margin;  a 
great  rampart,  something  [  .  .  .  ]  in  height, 
serves  here  for  a  balustrade;  it  is  broken  here 
and  there  by  wide  embrasures  commanding 
the  sea  and  sky,  a  giddy  stretch  of  falling  rock 
and  the  breach  of  the  surf.  Across  one  of 
these  there  was  a  man,  Vasa,  who  used  to  leap ; 

[i33] 


none  other  durst  attempt  the  feat,  and  Vasa 
has  been  dead  these  thirty  years.  Then  there 
was  our  old  friend  the  Songster's  Leap,  but 
the  object  was  quite  new,  the  leap  not  made  to 
escape  pursuit  but  to  amaze  and  dazzle  the 
lady  who  was  accompanying  him,  perhaps 
with  half  a  heart.  But  the  time  of  her  un- 
willingness was  nearly  over.  A  little  beyond, 
on  the  immediate  brow  of  the  cliff,  grows  a 
mass  of  white  plumed  pua ;  so  soon  as  man  and 
woman  came  here  together  the  scent  of  this 
random  garden  overpowered  resistance.  A 
little  farther  forth  the  path  lay  among  these 
flowers,  the  sea  bursting  close  below,  a  long 
front  of  cliff  making  a  giddy  foreground,  and 
far  off  across  the  flat  sea  the  eastern  end  of 
Tutuila  shows  beyond.  It  is  indeed  a  giddy 
piece  of  path.  Vertigo  seized  upon  one  of 
our  party,  and  he  was  much  laughed  at  and 
told  his  mind  ran  upon  Venus.  (Perhaps 
this  is  the  reason?) 

Below  unseen  there  is  somewhere  the  mouth 
of  a  cave  full  of  birds,  and  here  was  the  next 
station  of  this  pilgrimage  of  love.  The  lover 
standing  close  on  the  edge  utters  high  musical 
cries,  and  immediately  from  beneath  float  up 

[■34] 


and  up,  and  wheel  awhile  below,  and  float 
higher  and  wheel  overhead,  a  flock  of  broad- 
winged  sea-birds,  black  and  white.  The  path 
turns  direct  over  the  top  of  the  hill,  a  grove 
of  cocoanuts  grows  close,  and  we  drink  of 
their  nuts.  All  these  bear  the  names  of  form- 
er visitors,  two  for  each  party,  the  man  and 
the  woman.  Yet  a  little  farther,  skirting  the 
inner  glacis  of  the  bowl  of  hills,  the  green 
marsh  and  the  blue  pool  beneath,  and  the  sea 
shining  through  the  opposite  brush,  and  the 
palms  and  the  tao  painted  on  the  sky,  they 
reach  the  last  stage  and  veritable  temple  of 
the  goddess.  Huge  old  ipis  stand  in  a  grove; 
beneath  them  a  ring  of  stones  upon  the  ground ; 
once  there  was  a  house  which  has  [been]  suf- 
fered to  fall  down,  but  the  ring  of  [s] tones  is 
maintained,  the  ground  cleaned,  the  sacred 
ipis  watched  and  I  believe  the  long  path  kept 
open  by  two  old  men  at  two  dollars  per  men- 
sem. Sic  itur  ad.  The  whole  practice  is  now 
much  declined  and  thought  of  as  disgraceful. 
What  makes  it  the  more  strange,  no  excuse 
flows  from  this  vain  pilgrimage;  the  guilty 
couple  are  more  blamed  than  if  they  had  re- 
mained at  home,  and  I  could  receive  no  ex- 

[135] 


planation,  —  but  it  was  a  custom  from  of  old. 

The  Dutch  low  lands,  ditches,  dykes,  fields 
of  small  taio  interlaid  with  straw,  palms,  play- 
ing poplars,  no  bush  anywhere,  all  the  bowl 
of  the  hills  weeded  and  cleaned  and  planted. 
You  are  out  on  the  cove  through  a  thicket  of 
gray  [  .  .  .  ],  unhealthy;  on  the  rocks  dragon 
flies,  red  as  lacquer,  flitted;  in  the  rockside 
pools  some  active  little  fish  kept  up  a  perpet- 
ual bustle,  leaping  from  one  to  another  and 
(solemnlike)  making  them  a  ladder  to  and 
from  the  sea. 

Thursday.  —  Set  out  about  3.30  in  the  Fan- 
gatanga  boat,  Laila  steering.  All  the  way  we 
passed  one  cove  after  another,  where  a  man 
might  have  gone  ashore  (did  the  surf  permit) 
and  settled  down  for  life.  The  eastern  end  of 
the  island  runs  sharp  as  a  wedge  into  the  sea; 
you  turn  it  and  the  north  side  is  suddenly  visi- 
ble running  out  in  tall  cliffy  islets,  with  the 
back  of  Pioa  overhead.  The  sun  was  down 
long  ago  and  the  dusk  thickening  in  the  bay 
where  we  were  bound.  I  think  it  was  still 
day  on  the  high  seas.  Groves  of  cocoanut  run 
high  on  the  hills,  stand  thick  along  the  sandy 
shore.     In  the  midst  of  the  swamp  of  beach,  a 

[136] 


single  black  rock  breaks  the  sound  and  partly 
dams  the  mouth  of  a  little  shallow  river  com- 
ing slantwise  smooth  and  silent  through  the 
palms,  and  when  the  tide  is  low,  breaking  into 
song  and  making  the  least  possible  cascade 
about  the  rock.  Here  the  hamlet  lies,  pre- 
senting the  usual  appearance  of  a  ruined 
church,  a  little  open  space  among  the  palms 
where  the  chief's  houses  are,  —  a  few  scattering 
bread-fruits,  and  about  and  behind  the  depth 
of  mountain  forest.  A  crew  of  children  fol- 
lowed us  with  shouts  of  laughter  from  the 
beach,  the  Writer  of  Tales  whom  they  declar- 
ed to  be  a  woman  and  to  lack  the  essential 
bones  of  the  human  frame.  The  house  of  the 
avatar  to  whom  we  were  directed  was  already 
dark,  but  there  was  light  enough  to  show  us  a 
plague  of  flies  and  a  woman  in  a  rosary 
(wreath  of  flowers)  hastily  laying  out  mats. 
The  avatar  Alomoa  was  at  work  in  the  bush, 
and  his  absence  and  the  presence  of  the  flies 
decided  us  (in  an  ill  hour)  to  try  the  great 
house  of  the  village.  Thither  we  returned, 
still  followed  by  the  laughing  children.  It 
was  lighter  here,  for  the  house  stood  in  the 
midst  of  the  open  place  of  the  village,  stood 

[137] 


besides  on  a  raised,  round,  flat  frame  of  stones, 
and  its  pillars  were  extremely  high.  This  in 
particular  pleased  us,  and  we  began  to  think 
we  were  in  good  quarters.  A  woman  received 
us,  not  with  much  alacrity,  and  word  was  sent 
for  the  chief.  As  we  sat  waiting  him,  the 
house  was  gradually  filled  and  surrounded  by 
the  curious  of  the  village,  and  a  curious  scene 
they  were  certainly  destined  to  enjoy.  The 
chief  was  seen  at  last  to  issue  from  a  closed 
house  some  distance  back,  —  a  tall,  sickly,  sol- 
emn figure  of  a  man,  attired  in  green  and  with 
a  rosary;  slowly  he  approached,  bid  us  a  stiff 
welcome,  sat  down,  and  the  palaver  com- 
menced. He  began  by  saying  we  might  stay 
the  night,  and  our  boys  who  were  only  wait- 
ing for  the  signal  set  out  at  once  for  the  beach 
to  bring  up  our  possessions.  Next  he  asked 
why  we  had  passed  his  house  by,  and  gone  to 
another.  He  was  told  we  had  an  introduction 
from  a  friend.  Then  he  told  us  he  was  sorry 
he  could  give  us  no  food,  as  it  was  night.  We 
responded  that  we  had  plenty  of  food  of  our 
own  and  a  man  to  cook  it.  Thereupon  (as  by 
an  interlude)  we  were  offered  Kava,  which 
we  never  saw;  and  then  he  annoyed  us  by  in- 

[138] 


quiring  if  we  had  any  money,  and  offering  to 
sell  fowls.  This  was  the  last  blow;  Laila  be- 
ing by,  we  consulted  him  if  there  was  another 
village  we  could  still  reach.  The  village  was 
distant,  the  landing  dangerous,  the  night  fall- 
ing, the  boys  longing  for  Kava,  food  and  a  talk 
with  the  girls;  but  Laila,  having  heard  some- 
thing of  our  usage,  offered  to  try  it  on.  There- 
upon Sewall  *  began ;  he  told  our  host  that  we 
had  traveled  all  over  Samoa,  and  had  nowhere 
had  such  a  reception ;  that  it  was  un-Samoan, 
and  that  he  desired  to  know  why  we  were  so 
used.  The  host  made  some  excuses,  and  re- 
peated that  we  had  passed  his  house.  Sewall 
took  up  the  wondrous  tale  once  more,  told  him 
what  big  chiefs  we  were,  how  we  had  come 
here  glowing  with  Alofa  and  laden  with  pres- 
ents ;  how  he,  Sewall,  had  to  do  with  war  ships 
and  the  malo,  and  what  a  bad  day's  work  the 
chief  had  done  for  himself.  The  chief  once 
more  made  many  excuses,  vowed  he  had  been 
a  "fool,"  in  so  many  words,  and  begged  us  to 
stay.  Sewall  turned  to  me.  I  said  I  had  not 
been  received  by  this  person  as  a  gentleman 

1  This   was   Harold    Sewall,   the   American   Consul-General, 
who  accompanied  Stevenson  on  the  trip. —  Ed. 

[139] 


should,  that  I  did  not  regard  him  as  a  gentle- 
man, should  not  treat  him  as  a  gentleman  (if  I 
stayed),  but  as  the  landlord  of  a  dirty  inn; 
which  being  the  case  I  thought  it  neither  for 
his  soul's  health  nor  mine  that  we  should  stop 
longer  in  that  house,  and  for  my  part  I  pre- 
ferred to  spend  the  night  at  sea.  This  was 
translated  (like  all  the  rest,  in  a  very  emascu- 
lated form,  by  the  timid  Charlie) ;  and  Sewall 
gave  our  boys  the  order  to  begin  returning  the 
goods,  and  the  chief  began  once  more  his 
"[...]  low  apioga's."  Already  those  in 
the  house  and  around  it  were  much  stirred, 
but  now  came  the  cream.  The  great  man  was 
yet  talking,  when  we  three  arose.  Sewall  bade 
him  hold  his  tongue,  I  made  him  a  scornful 
gesture  of  farewell,  and  we  passed  out.  The 
village  of  Ana  boiled  like  a  kettle.  Our  boys 
with  an  excellent  affectation  of  alacrity  (for 
they  approved  our  attitude,  though  they  dis- 
liked the  business)  were  running  to  the  boat 
with  all  our  truck,  and  the  public  place  was 
black  with  the  entire  inhabitants,  whispering 
and  nodding  to  each  other.  The  disgrace  was 
public,  and  so  felt.  Sewall  was  great  as  he 
stood  on  the  terrace  of  the  house  we  had  just 

[140] 


left,  his  back  to  the  man  in  green,  and  directed 
his  boys  for  the  removal.  In  the  midst  up 
came  Alomoa,  now  returned  from  the  bush; 
up  came  a  Hawaiian  who  keeps  a  store  in  the 
village;  up  came  the  chief,  and  all  three  offer- 
ed us  accommodations.  We  decided,  after 
some  discussion,  to  accept  the  offer  of  Alomoa ; 
and  to  the  huge  joy  of  our  boys  returned  to  the 
house  of  flies.  It  was  a  reward  for  all  these 
sorrows,  when  I  strolled  to  the  beach  at  night 
and  looked  forward  over  the  pale  river  and 
pale  sea,  to  where  the  northern  sky  was  still 
pallid  with  the  evening,  or  back  to  the  pillared 
houses  of  the  village,  lit  up  from  within  by  the 
red  glow  of  the  cooking  fire  and  the  brighter 
star  of  the  paraffine  lamp.  After  a  long  dis- 
cussion of  the  isles  our  boys  set  off  to  a  pali 
tele;  not  long  after  the  clapping  of  hands  told 
us  the  Kava  was  ready  for  their  entertainment, 
and  presently  the  strong  sound  of  their  sing- 
ing ran  in  the  night. 

I  may  say  I  was  asleep  from  the  moment  I 
lay  down;  woke  in  the  night  but  twice,  and 
once  was  when  a  shower  came  and  the  blinds 
had  to  be  lowered.  The  first  streaks  of  day 
called  me;  I  was  awake  before  the  village; 

[ho 


nothing  stirred  but  multitudes  of  pigs,  black 
and  gray,  who  trotted  to  and  fro  and  grunted 
to  each  other  as  they  went;  and  as  I  bathed  in 
the  river  in  the  thin  twilight  a  gray  sow 
watched  me,  jealously  grunting.  Some  little 
fishes,  no  bigger  than  minnows,  leaped  the 
while  on  the  surface  of  the  water  and  actually 
struck  me  as  they  leaped.  A  little  after,  the 
life  woke.  Alomoa  and  his  wife  strummed 
their  Rainamu  and  set  forth  from  the  house. 
On  all  sides  people  wrapped  in  their  unfolded 
lavalavas,  like  Eastern  mantles,  were  to  be 
seen  making  their  way  to  the  beach.  Four 
tall  young  men  set  off  together,  robed  in  white, 
in  blue,  and  in  blue  with  a  pattern  of  white; 
presently  they  returned  and  sitting  in  a  row  in 
the  open  gallery  of  their  house,  chanted  a  brief 
song.  A  drum  was  beat,  like  last  night,  — not 
the  pati,  but  the  war  drum.  Women  began  to 
go  around  the  houses  with  a  basket,  playing 
scavenger.  And  here  came  Ah  Sin  with  a  cup 
of  tea,  and  I  must  turn  to  my  diary  with  what 
appetite  I  might.  Hard  is  the  lot  of  the 
Tusitala. 

The  population  of  Ana  used  to  be  200;  it  is 
now    ninety-odd.     War    and    sickness    were 

[142] 


named  among  the  causes;  and  this,  also,  that 
the  men  took  wives  from  Mannia,  and  the 
children  went  afterwards  to  their  mothers' 
houses  —  why? 

Eight  oarsmen,  a  cox,  Laila,  Ah  Sin,  Char- 
lie, Sewall,  Lloyd  and  me:  fourteen  souls  in 
all. 

Wednesday.  —  Sailed  a  little  before  high 
water,  and  came  skirting  for  some  while  along 
a  coast  of  classical  landscapes,  cliffy  promon- 
tories, long  sandy  coves  divided  by  semi-inde- 
pendent islets,  and  the  far-withdrawing  sides 
of  the  mountain,  rich  with  every  shape  and 
shade  of  verdure.  Nothing  lacked  but  tem- 
ples and  galleys,  and  our  own  long  whaleboat 
sped  to  the  sound  of  singing  by  eight  oarsmen 
figured  a  piece  of  antiquity  better  perhaps  than 
we  thought.  No  road  leads  along  this  coast. 
We  scarce  saw  a  house;  these  delectable  islets 
lay  quite  deserted,  inviting  seizure;  and  there 
was  none,  like  Keats'  Endymion,  to  hear  our 
snow  light  cadence.  The  harbour  opened  sud- 
denly like  a  Scots  loch ;  the  bay  of  Oa,  to  whose 
rear  we  had  now  worked  round,  filling  it  at  the 
end;  and  to  this  by  a  pardonable  tongapiti,  our 
boatmen  sought  to  bend  the  course.     The  far 

[143] 


isle  to  which  we  were  bound  they  assured  us 
was  unscalable,  waterless,  nutless;  we  but  in- 
sisted the  more,  and  after  the  usual  Samoan 
period  of  opposition,  the  coxswain  smilingly 
gave  way,  and  we  pursued  our  ascent  of  the 
coast,  —  not  very  far.  Upon  a  sudden  we  be- 
gan to  enter  the  bay  of  Oa.  At  the  first  sight, 
my  mind  was  made  up ;  the  bay  of  Oa  was  the 
place  for  me.  We  could  not  enter  it,  we  had 
been  assured ;  and  having  entered  we  could  not 
land: — both  statements  plainly  fiction,  both 
easily  resolved  into  the  fact  that  here  was  no 
guest  house  and  no  girls  to  make  the  Kava  for 
our  boatmen  and  admire  their  singing.  A  lit- 
tle gentle  insistence  once  again  produced  a 
smiling  acquiescence,  and  the  eight  oars  began 
to  urge  us  slowly  into  a  bay  of  the  Aeneid. 
Right  over  head  a  conical  hill  arises;  its  top 
is  all  sheer  cliff  of  a  rosy  pallor,  stained  with 
orange  and  purple,  bristled  and  ivied  with  in- 
dividual climbing  trees ;  lower  down  the  woods 
are  massed,  huge  individual  trees  standing  to 
the  neck  in  forest.  Lower  again  the  rock  crops 
out  in  a  steep  buttress  which  divides  the  arc  of 
beach.  The  western  arc  was  the  smaller;  on 
the  eastern,  in  the  forepoint  of  the  beach,  I 

[144] 


spied,  to  my  sorrow,  figures  moving,  and  a  lit- 
tle smoke.  The  boat  was  eased  in,  we  landed 
and  turned  this  way  and  that,  like  fools,  in  a 
perplexity  of  pleasures;  now  some  way  into 
the  wood  toward  the  spire,  but  the  woods  had 
soon  strangled  the  path ;  in  the  Samoan  phrase, 
the  way  was  dead,  and  we  began  to  flounder  in 
impenetrable  brush,  still  far  from  the  foot  of 
the  ascent,  although  already  the  greater  trees 
began  to  throw  out  arms  dripping  with  lianas 
and  to  accept  us  in  the  margin  of  their 
shadows.  Now  along  the  beach,  —  it  was 
grown  up  with  crooked,  thick-leaved  trees 
down  to  the  water's  edge.  Immediately  be- 
hind, there  had  once  been  a  clearing;  it  was  all 
choked  up  with  the  mummy-apple,  which  in 
this  country  springs  up  at  once  at  the  heels  of 
the  axeman,  and  among  this  was  intermingled 
the  cocoa-palm  and  the  banana.  Our  landing 
and  the  bay  itself  had  nearly  turned  my  head. 
"Here  are  the  works  of  all  the  poets  passim." 
I  said.  And  just  then  my  companion  stopped. 
"Behold  an  omen,"  said  he,  and  pointed.  It 
was  a  sight  I  had  heard  of  before  in  the  is- 
lands, but  not  seen :  a  little  tree  such  as  grows 
sometimes  on  infinitesimal  islets  on  the  reef, 

[145] 


almost  stripped  of  its  leaves  and  covered  in- 
stead with  feasting  butterflies.  These,  as  we 
drew  near,  arose  and  hovered  in  a  cloud  of 
blue  and  silver  gray.  Later  on  I  found  the 
scene  repeated  in  another  place;  but  here  the 
butterflies  were  of  a  different  species,  glossy 
brown  and  black,  with  arabesques  of  white. 

The  figures  we  had  seen  were  those  of  an 
old  woman,  her  daughter  and  two  little  boys ; 
they  came  from  the  village  under  the  other 
side  of  Vamanga,  and  in  the  coals  at  their  feet 
a  cuttlefish  was  cooking.  Our  boys,  with  the 
two  knives  and  the  hatchet,  strolled  up,  sat 
down,  forgot  their  errand,  and  without  any 
invitation  that  I  could  hear,  divided  among 
themselves  the  cuttlefish;  they  may  have  left 
an  arrow;  and  the  old  lady,  highly  delighted, 
invited  them  over  to  her  house  that  night  to 
sleep  with  her  daughter.  Doubtless  a  high 
spirited  pleasantry  in  the  island  fashion. 

The  sun  was  still  shining  on  the  eastern  hill, 
and  the  birds  were  still  piping  in  all  the  bushy 
sides  of  our  inlet,  when  I  was  able  to  sit  down 
to  my  diary  in  the  open  front  of  our  new 
house;  the  smoke  of  the  rekindled  fire  drifting 
before  me,  the  smell  of  roasting  pig  strong  in 

[H6] 


my  nostrils;  the  boat  pulled  up,  the  crew  seat- 
ed about  smoking  their  banana-leaf  cigarettes ; 
our  boxes  piled  in  disorder  on  the  shore;  and 
right  in  front  of  me  (where  our  Chinaman 
had  placed  it  out  of  the  way  of  harm)  our 
brass  lantern  glittering  in  a  niche  of  a  shore- 
side  tree.  As  I  wrote,  the  snails  of  the  beach 
climbed  upon  my  ink  pot. 

As  we  came  in,  high  above  us  in  the  honey- 
combed woods,  flying-foxes  and  snow  white 
gulls  were  flying. 

We  ate  in  the  front  of  our  shed.  Pig,  [...], 
miki,  and  roasted  taro,  were  native  food, 
washed  down  with  a  historic  wine, — white 
California  from  the  wreck  of  Admiral  Kim- 
berley's  ship,  the  Trenton.  It  appeared  that 
even  in  the  lot  of  Admirals  there  was  a  crook. 
It  was  curious  meanwhile,  as  the  boys  sat  about 
on  a  big  Futu  tree  before  us,  to  see  them  upon 
their  sides,  eating  tinned  salmon  from  home; 
but  how  often  it  is  so,  that  the  common  food 
of  one  race  should  be  the  delicacy  of  the  other; 
and  the  consul's  excellent  tea,  which  Ah  Sin 
brews  for  me  at  sunrise  and  which  I  was  one 
day  so  unworldly  as  to  praise,  the  traveled 
Chinaman  identified  as  "poor  man's  tea."    A 

[147] 


little  while  after,  our  boys  began  suddenly  to 
sing.  They  sat  all  about  the  tree,  some  in 
their  sheds,  some  on  the  far  side  by  the  sea; 
in  the  dusk,  and  by  the  light  of  the  dying  fire, 
it  was  just  possible  to  see  the  nearest,  their 
bare  shoulders  polished  in  the  glow.  One 
raised  the  song;  the  rest  from  different  sides 
and  distances  joined  in.  It  was  a  fine  grave 
measure.  I  thought  it  had  some  European 
base,  but  the  Samoans  so  transfuse  their  bor- 
rowed music  that  I  had  no  guess  it  was  a  hymn, 
and  applauded  in  the  usual  pause.  I  was  still 
applauding  when  I  was  aware  of  the  sustained 
sound  of  a  voice  from  the  far  side  of  the  tree ; 
and  by  the  subdued  tones,  and  the  recurrence 
of  the  exclusive  plural,  knew  it  was  a  prayer, 
and  that  I  had  burst  with  music  hall  applause 
into  the  midst  of  the  evening  worship.  A 
sharp,  file-firing  "Amen"  from  the  scattered 
worshippers  marked  the  conclusion  of  the  ex- 
ercises. By  that  time  it  was  fully  night.  The 
lantern  was  set  before  us  in  the  front  of  our 
tent.  Four  of  the  boys  sat  in  a  row  on  their 
hams.  Behind  them  in  a  turban  of  parti- 
colored towelling,  the  cook  beat  the  measure 
on  a  biscuit  case;  the  lantern  threw  them  out 

[i48] 


brightly;  behind  it  sparkled  on  the  fat  leaves 
and  crooked  branches  of  the  Futu,  and  behind 
again,  but  for  some  occasional  glimmer  of  the 
sea,  mere  night  enclosed  us.  At  such  an  hour, 
by  such  a  light,  in  this  desert  and  romantic 
cove,  I  saw  for  the  first  time  the  male  dancers 
of  Tutuila;  they  gave  us  their  songs;  about 
voyage,  with  paddling  and  looking  out  from 
under  the  hand;  a  song  of  exercise  and  skirm- 
ishing with  the  Winchester  rifle;  and  another 
of  the  same  with  the  old  Samoan  war  club. 
Change  of  tempo;  huge  effect;  when  the 
dances  were  over  they  lay  on  the  ground  and 
sang  the  lament  for  the  deportation  of  Mann- 
ga;  and  then  the  concert  degenerated  into  a 
long  talk  in  which  we  discussed  Mannga's 
exile,  and  the  Malietoa  and  the  Tanasese 
feuds,  and  the  case  of  the  dancers  whom  Cun- 
ningarne  had  taken  to  Europe,  and  the  story 
of  the  two  who  had  escaped  from  him  and  by 
the  help  of  a  kind  German  lady  had  returned 
to  their  beloved  island;  and  we  gave  them  ex- 
cellent advice  and  the  consul  chaffed  them  and 
was  chaffed  handsomely  in  return,  for  he  who 
spars  with  Samoans  must  look  to  receive  coun- 
ters; and  then  came  the  word  of  dissolution, 

[149] 


Fiamoa.  It  was  Topa  here,  and  Topa  there. 
Our  boys  scattered  to  their  roosting  places; 
the  nets  were  triced  up  in  the  shed,  we  took 
our  places,  and  the  lantern  was  turned  out.  It 
was  like  the  removal  of  a  cataract;  in  the 
twinkling  of  an  eye  the  walls  of  darkness  that 
contained  us  burst,  and  there  was  the  heaven 
bright  with  stars,  and  there  were  the  sea  and 
the  hillside  clear  in  the  starlight. 

All  night  the  crickets  sang  with  a  clear  trill 
of  silver;  all  night  the  sea  filled  the  hollow  of 
the  bay  with  varying  utterance;  now  sounding 
continuous  like  a  mill-weir;  now  (perhaps 
from  farther  off)  with  pointed  swells  and  si- 
lences. In  the  morning  I  went  wandering  on 
the  beach  when  the  tide  was  low.  I  went 
round  the  tree  before  our  boys  had  stirred;  it 
was  the  first  clear  gray  of  the  morning;  and  I 
could  see  them  lie,  each  in  his  place,  enmeshed 
from  head  to  foot  in  his  unfolded  kilt.  The 
Highlander  with  his  belted  plaid,  the  Samoan 
with  his  lava-lava,  each  sleep  in  their  one  ves- 
ture unfolded.  One  boy,  who  slept  in  the  open 
under  the  trees,  had  made  his  pillow  of  a 
smouldering  brand,  doubtless  for  the  conven- 
ience of  a  midnight  cigarette;  all  night  the 

[ISO] 


flame  had  crept  nearer,  and  as  he  lay  there 
wrapped  like  an  Oriental  woman  and  still 
plunged  in  sleep,  the  redness  was  within  two 
hands-breadths  of  his  frizzled  hair.  I  had 
scarce  bathed,  had  scarce  begun  to  enjoy  the 
fairness  and  precious  colors  of  the  morning, 
the  golden  glow  along  the  edge  of  the  high 
eastern  woods,  the  clear  light  on  the  sugar 
leaf  of  mangalai,  the  woven  blue  and  emerald 
of  the  cove,  the  chuckle  of  morning  bird  song 
that  filled  the  valley  of  the  woods,  when,  upon 
a  sudden,  a  draught  of  wind  came  from  the 
leeward  and  the  highlands  of  the  isle,  rain 
rattled  on  the  tossing  woods;  the  pride  of  the 
morning  had  come  early  and  from  an  unlook- 
ed-for side.  I  fled  for  refuge  in  the  shed ;  but 
such  of  our  boys  as  were  awake  stirred  not  in 
the  least;  they  sat  where  they  were,  perched  on 
the  scattered  boxes  of  our  camp,  and  puffed  at 
their  stubborn  cigarettes,  and  crouched  a  little 
in  the  slanting  shower.  So  good  a  thing  it  is 
to  wear  few  clothes.  I  who  was  largely  un- 
clad—  a  pair  of  serge  trousers,  a  singlet, 
woolen  socks,  and  canvas  shoes  —  think  of  it! 
— envied  them  their  light  array. 

Thursday.  —  Snaese  [?]  and  Laila  withdrew 

[151] 


to  the  village,  which  they  found  in  the  nick  of 
the  next  day,  an  exceptionally  wind-swept, 
cheery,  and  bemedalled  place  of  dwelling. 
Pioa  clear  overhead,  and  a  thin,  hen's  path 
across  the  narrow  isle  to  go  to  Pagopago  and 
return.  Meanwhile  I  had  Virgil's  bay  all 
morning  to  myself,  and  feasted  on  solitude  and 
the  overhanging  woods,  and  the  retiring  sea. 
The  quiet  was  only  broken  by  the  hoarse  cooing 
of  wild  pigeons  up  the  valley,  and  certain  in- 
roads of  capricious  winds  that  find  a  way  hence 
and  thence  down  the  hill-side  and  set  the  palms 
clattering;  my  enjoyment  only  disturbed  by 
clouds  of  dull,  voracious,  spotted  and  not  par- 
ticularly welcomed  mosquitoes.  When  I  was 
still  I  kept  Buhac  powder  burning  by  me  on  a 
stone  under  the  shed,  and  read  Livy,  and  com- 
pared today  and  two  thousand  years  ago,  and 
wondered  in  which  of  these  epochs  I  was 
flourishing  that  moment;  and  then  I  would 
stroll  out  and  see  the  rocks  and  the  woods,  and 
the  arcs  of  beaches,  carved  like  a  whorl  in  a 
fair  woman's  ear,  and  huge  ancient  trees  jut- 
ting high  overhead  out  of  the  hanging  forest, 
great  as  mountains,  and  feel  the  place  at  least 
belonged  to  the  age  of  fable,  and  awaited 

[152] 


Aeneas  and  his  battered  fleets.  All  day  the 
snow  white  birds  wheeled  above  and  settled 
on  our  Futu;  snow  white  as  those  in  Poe's  hy- 
perbolical story,  the  tail  split  like  a  swallow's, 
the  courage  certainly  high,  for  I  saw  (far 
across  the  bay)  two  of  these  shining  fowl 
perched  in  the  top  of  our  Futu,  while  the  bus- 
iness, smoke  and  laughter  of  our  camp  rose  all 
about  them. 

Some  time  in  the  afternoon  —  two  for  a  guess 
—  we  have  no  watch  in  our  party  and  rudely 
compute  by  the  rising  and  setting  of  the  sun  — 
we  were  aware  of  a  bustle  and  the  boys  run- 
ning here  and  there  with  our  effects.  "What 
is  it?  A  great  rain?"  No  sooner  said  than 
realized ;  down  came  the  rain  in  a  brief  water- 
spout; the  boys  clustered  sadly  under  the  Futu, 
the  roof  of  our  shed  became  transpierced 
through  joint  and  crevice  with  fine  drills  of 
cold  water,  and  we  sat  dripping  amid  our 
drenched  possessions.  "Evil  is  this  house  that 
you  have  built  us,"  we  cried  to  our  boys,  "Evil 
are  the  trees  in  this  place,"  was  the  reply  from 
the  clustered  herd  under  the  Futu.  But  the 
evil  was  in  our  own  neglect,  for  the  Samoan 
must  be  watched  and  managed,  and  the  night 


before  we  had  been  too  much  pleased  with 
our  fine  bay  to  mind  the  builders.  By  good 
luck  the  shower  was  as  short  as  it  was  sharp, 
and  we  made  a  busy  job  of  it  to  draw  our 
books  and  clothes  and  bedding  on  the  coral 
gravel  in  the  returning  sun. 

Thursday.  — The  new  house  held  water. 
Showers  fell  often  in  the  night;  some  sound- 
ing from  far  off  like  a  cataract,  some  striking 
the  house ;  but  not  a  drop  came  in.  The  flow- 
ers of  the  Futu  lie  scattered  about  it,  tassels 
of  fine  sprays,  snow  white,  warming  through 
rose  to  crimson,  and  each  tipped  with  a  golden 
star.  This  drawing-room  finery  looks  strange- 
ly out  of  place  on  the  rude  shingle.  At  night 
a  cry  of  a  wild  catlike  creature  in  the  brush. 
Far  up  on  the  hill,  one  golden  tree,  — they  say 
it  is  a  wild  cocoanut.  I  know  it  is  not;  they 
must  know  so  too;  and  this  leaves  me  free  to 
think  it  sprang  from  the  gold  bough  of  Pro- 
serpine. 

The  morning  was  all  in  blue;  the  sea  blue, 
—  blue  in  shore  upon  the  shallows,  —  only  the 
blue  was  nameless;  and  the  horizon  clouds  a 
blue,  like  a  fine  pale  porcelain;  the  sky  be- 
hind them  a  pale  lemon  faintly  warmed  with 

[154] 


orange.  Much  that  one  sees  in  the  tropics  is 
in  water-colors;  but  this  sunrise  was  in  water- 
colors  by  a  young  lady. 

All  our  camp  still  slept,  —  the  cox  and  the 
interpreter  in  their  separate  shed,  the  crew  in 
the  three  others,  and  the  lame  man  in  his 
usual  chamber,  the  hollow  of  the  tree.  None 
stirred;  and  behold,  the  tide  was  full,  the  mo- 
ment counted.  I  shook  up  the  cox,  and  he 
with  a  long  pole  beat  on  the  green  roofs  of  the 
sheds  and  called  his  crew  together.  It  was 
still  early  when  we  stole  out  of  the  Bay.  Pola, 
when  we  came  there,  was  but  a  wall  of  rock, 
divided  from  the  mainland  by  a  bubbling 
channel  of  about  two  boats'  length ;  trees  clus- 
tered on  its  narrow  top,  a  few  clung  on  its  side 
which  was  in  one  place  buttressed  with  a  nat- 
ural arch.  Thousands  of  sea  birds  wheeled 
silently  above  or  sat  close  in  crannies,  or  be- 
snowed  the  clinging  trees.  To  look  at  the 
place  was  to  understand  the  irony  of  our  boat's 
crew  when  they  smilingly  consented  to  come 
there  and  camp.  Again  they  proposed  it. 
Through  the  gate  we  skirted  a  precipitous 
shore  with  some  nut  stacks,  here  green  with 
climbing  wood,  here  bursting  forth  in  naked 

E155] 


crags  striped  with  cinnabar,  here  wet  with 
falling  streams,  —  the  devil's  taro,  the  sea- 
birds  following. 


[156] 


LETTERS  OF  STEVENSON  TO  HIS 
MOTHER  — 1868-1890 

It  is  greatly  to  be  regretted  that  Stevenson's 
correspondence  with  his  parents,  and  especial- 
ly with  his  mother,  was  not  published  before 
the  dispersal  of  the  Stevenson  family  papers. 
The  opportunity  to  issue  such  a  volume  has 
now  gone  by,  and  the  best  that  can  be  hoped 
for  is  the  addition  in  print  from  time  to  time 
to  those  letters  that  have  already  appeared,  of 
such  little  groups  as  may  be  made  available 
by  private  collectors  into  whose  hands  the 
manuscripts  have  passed. 

The  six  that  here  follow  begin  with  a  letter 
full  of  boyish  exuberance  and  humor,  written 
when  Stevenson  was  eighteen  years  old.  It 
was  a  period  when  in  deference  to  his  father's 
wishes,  but  with  little  enthusiasm,  he  was  try- 
ing to  qualify  himself  for  entrance  upon  the 
family  profession  of  lighthouse  building,  and 
we  find  him  at  Wick,  observing  the  work  of 
his  father's  firm.  But  with  this  work  Stev- 
enson here  concerns  himself  only  in  a  few 
lines;  interestingly,  where  he  writes  that  after 
"two  poles  were  put  up,  the  levels  taken,  the 

[»57] 


gauges  up-fixed;  and,  with  these  hands  I  cut 
the  paper  strips!" 

The  quotations  in  Latin,  the  reference  to 
poets  —  Coleridge,  Byron,  Southey  —  the  mis- 
spellings of  words,  the  gossip  about  friends, 
the  interjection  of  French  words  and  the  pass- 
ing reference  to  his  supposedly  real  work  at 
Wick,  all  form  a  happy-go-lucky  jumble,  in  a 
letter  which  Stevenson  intended  to  be  "very 
witty,  very  amusing,  very  romantic,  very  en- 
tertaining in  general."  But  the  chief  value  of 
the  youthful  effusion  lies  in  the  fact  that  it  il- 
lustrates the  geniality  of  Stevenson's  relation- 
ship with  the  mother  for  whom  his  devotion 
was  ever  to  remain  so  constant. 

The  second  letter,  dated  in  his  mother's  au- 
tograph, as  written  at  Bournemouth  Decem- 
ber 15,  1884,  belongs  to  a  period  when  Stev- 
enson, then  a  married  man,  was  in  extremely 
ill  health,  but  very  busy  with  work.  A  week 
earlier  he  had  asked  his  parents  to  bring  with 
them  on  their  contemplated  visit  his  volumes 
of  Montaigne,  Milton,  Shakespeare  and  Haz- 
litt,  and  a  few  other  books.  To  some  of  these 
volumes  reference  is  again  made  in  the  present 
letter,  the  chief  point  of  interest  in  which  is  its 

[158] 


mention  of  Sargent's  portrait  of  Stevenson, 
and  of  Gladstone's  already  known  enthusiasm 
for  Treasure  Island.  The  references  to  his 
father's  appearance  and  address  are  explained 
in  a  note,  again  in  the  mother's  autograph,  the 
elder  Stevenson  then  having  recently  become 
President  of  the  Royal  Society  of  Edinburgh. 

To  both  mother  and  father  the  third  letter, 
dated  by  Mrs.  Stevenson,  Bournemouth  July 
31  1885,  IS  addressed.  In  the  Spring  of  that 
year  Stevenson's  father  had  given  to  his  daugh- 
ter-in-law the  house  at  Bournemouth,  origin- 
ally named  "Bonallie  Towers,"  and  re-named 
"Skerryvore,"  in  reminiscence,  as  Sir  Sidney 
Colvin  has  stated,  "of  one  of  the  great  light- 
house works  carried  out  by  the  family  firm  off 
the  Scottish  coast."  Stevenson  and  his  wife 
are  here  adding  to  the  appearance  of  the  draw- 
ing room  and  the  dining  room,  and  the  young 
husband  seems  quite  cheerful  despite  the  bank- 
ruptcy that  he  predicts  as  a  consequence. 

The  fourth  letter  was  written  at  Honolulu 
in  June  1889,  just  after  Stevenson  had  re- 
turned from  his  visit  to  the  leper  settlement  at 
Molokai.  In  the  months  of  May  and  June 
1889,  Stevenson  described  to  his  friends,  Sid- 

[159] 


ney  Colvin  and  James  Payn,  some  of  his  ex- 
periences among  those  stricken  people  where 
Father  Damien  labored;  others  of  these  ex- 
periences are  set  forth  for  the  first  time  in  the 
Lazaretto  article  printed  herein,  as  well  as 
in  the  present  letter  to  his  mother.  Here,  as 
nowhere  else  in  Stevenson's  writings,  are  some 
very  attractive  lights  on  Father  Damien  him- 
self, whose  entertainments  varied  from  the 
religious  to  the  comic  and  who,  Stevenson 
says,  "reminds  us  of  Colvin  in  many  ways, 
which  you  know  is  a  big  word  for  us." 

That  same  month  Stevenson  sailed  from 
Honolulu  on  the  steamer  Equator,  to  vari- 
ous islands  of  the  western  Pacific,  arriving  at 
Samoa  late  in  December.  It  was  during  this 
journey  and  on  that  vessel  that  the  fifth  ex- 
ceedingly interesting  letter  was  written  to  his 
mother.  The  people  and  doings  on  shipboard 
come  in  for  detailed  mention,  including  the 
proceedings  that  celebrated  Stevenson's  thir- 
ty-ninth birthday. 

After  some  weeks  at  Samoa,  where  Steven- 
son bought  the  mountain  estate  which  was 
later  to  become  his  home  and  his  death  place, 
he  went  in  February  1890  to  Sydney,  and  from 

[160] 


that  port,  he  embarked  in  April  on  the  trading 
steamer  Janet  Nicoll  for  a  voyage  of  some 
four  months  among  the  Gilberts,  the  Mar- 
snails,  and  others  of  the  Pacific  Islands. 

The  sixth  letter  was  written  during  this  voy- 
age,—  the  crew,  the  company  and  the  route 
forming  the  subject  matter.  How  pleasant 
were  Stevenson's  relations  with  his  ship  com- 
panions on  this  cruise  is  best  shown  in  the  dedi- 
cation of  the  "Island  Nights  Entertainments" 
to  Harry  Henderson,  Jack  Buckland,  and  Ben 
Heard,  "supercargo  frae  Aiberdeen." 

G.  S.  H. 

Pulteney  Hotel, 
Friday,  Oct.  2nd,  1868,  11 130  P.M. 
My  dear  Mother, — 

"Ha  my  prophetic  soul!"  how  true  thou 
prophesied!  or  prophesiedest;  but  the  latter  is 
bad  orthorgraphy  and  spoils  the  Alexandrine 
(Nota  Bene:  papa  will  again  object  to  poet- 
ry). I  knew  you  were  on  the  broad  of  your 
back.  Second  withering  blast  of  prophesy:  — 
you  have  been  at  church]  I  am  glad  you  are 
better. 

To  desert  these  windy  and  perilous  heights 

[161] 


of  prophesy  and  grandeur,  let  me  court  the 
hum-drum  muse  of  epistolary  diction:  you  see 
I  am  still  a  little  Poped;  indeed  he  fairly 
pooped  me! 

Miss  J.  —  J?  Where  are  thy  thoughts?  — 
Miss  Jamie  Jamiesen,  to  be  sure! 

On  Wednesday  the  Russels  sent  for  me  to 
come  at  eight.  Wondering,  I  went.  (Stay  — 
a  little  gossip  first.  .  .  "  Enough  —  more  than 
enough  of  gossip!  So  go  on.)  Forma  and 
Latta  (forma  translates  nicely:  supposing  an 
ellision  thus:  "Pulcherrima  forma,"  which 
papa  will  translate)  Miss  Coxe,  Adams  et 
ego  were  to  go  a  walk  "per  arnica  silentia 
lunae, —  under  the  friendly  silence  of  the 
moon"  —  ahem!  Virgil!  to  quote  Pangloss  — 
to  the  Old  Man  of  Wick,  a  ruinous  Tower  on 
a  neck  of  beetling  cliff,  with  two  roaring 
chasms  of  tarn  and  a  wild  coast  of  crag  and 
cane  and  boulder  trending  away  on  either 
hand  (papa  here  once  more  condemns  Tatler- 
anean  tendency  and  deplores  same).  I  en- 
tertained Sara  and  the  latter  woman :  Adams, 
Miss  Coxe.  Of  course  on  occasions,  it  faded 
into  an  insipid  party  of  five;  but  that  was 

1  Two  lines  were  here  erased  by  his  Mother. 

[162] 


the  usual  arrangement.  We  sat  down  outside 
the  tower  and  watched  "The  moon-chased 
shadows"  fly  across  the  wide  white  fields  of 
tarn.  The  latter,  who  is  very  romantic  and 
likes  Byron,  Scott,  dim  moonlight  and  faded 
lovers,  found  her  heart  too  full  for  words  and 
retired  to  a  far  pinnacle,  like  Elijah  the  Tish- 
bite  alone. 

I  was  so  much  amused  at  Mrs.  Russell 
(who  is  a  very  nice  body,  albeit  a  Paget  of  the 
Pagets  and  the  real  Pagets,  whence  comes  the 
tuftism)  ;  she  was  so  frightened;  we  were  to 
keep  away  from  the  rocks ;  we  were  to  do  this ; 
I  was  to  put  on  her  shawl  (which,  however,  I 
secreted  in  the  lobby)  ;  we  were  to  do  that; 
but,  above  all,  was  she  distressed  over  a  por- 
tion of  Sara's  attire,  —  a  garment  called,  I  am 
told,  a  p-t-c-t.  This  part  of  her  apparel  had 
been  scrupulously  cleansed  for  Germanee! 
and  they  feared  that,  passing  through  the 
mire,  it  might  become  soiled.  In  my  eager- 
ness to  oblige,  not  only  did  I  become  bound 
to  wear  the  shawl  and  become  answerable  for 
the  necks  and  future  health  of  the  whole  party, 
but  I  actually  offered  a  guarantee  for  the  safe 
return  of  the  said  portion  of  attire  or  wearing 

[163] 


apparel,  or  the  aforesaid  garment,  namely  the 
p-t-c-t:  whereat,  on  rit.  We  had  a  very  pleas- 
ant walk. 

So  you  left  Swanston  yesterday.  Heu 
scelerata  jacet  sedes  in  Heriot  Row!  (How 
classical  I  have  become  —  haven't  I  ?)  As  this 
substitution  makes  the  line  a  foot  too  short, 
you  will  be  pleased  to  proceed  on  the  "Mur- 
ray of  Murrays  Ha-Ha"  principle,  and  say 
"Row-ow,"  which  makes  it  correct.  The  line 
is  the  beginning  of  Ovid's  description  of  Tar- 
tarus ;  so  it's  rather  hard  on  "sweet  seventeen" 
after  all.  And  left  it  yesterday,  while  I  was 
waiting  for  Mr.  Robieson  absent  foreman- 
joiner.     Well !  well !  troubles  never  come  sing- 

Today  the  two  poles  were  put  up ;  the  levels 
taken;  the  gauges  up-fixed;  and,  with  these 
hands  I  cut  the  paper  strips!  Tomorrow  and 
Monday  our  men  take  the  observations. 

David  MacD.  and  I  pulled  out  in  the  boat 
to  the  bay's  mouth  when  the  men  were  done. 
The  moon  rose,  red  and  "rideeclous  magni- 
fied" from  the  breast  of  the  sea.  It  was  a 
lovely  night.  A  lugger,  out  for  the  night's 
fishing,  passed  close  by;  it  looked  tall,  filmy 

[i64] 


and  unnatural  in  the  dim  light;  we  could  only 
see  the  outline.  At  last,  it  drove  "betwixt  the 
moon  and  us" — aheml  Coleridge!  (Pangloss 
again)  —  you  would  have  been  delighted.  We 
pulled  back,  moored  the  boat  at  the  outmost 
ladder  and  walked  in  along  the  staging.  Sud- 
denly D.  M.  stopped;  I  thought  he  looked 
livid  about  the  gills.     "The  dog!"  he  gasped. 

"What  about  the  dog?  The  dog  knows 
vow?"  said  I,  a  little  chilled. 

"I  don't  know  that  though,"  he  said;  "and 
even  when  he  wasn't  so  fierce,  I  seen a  him  set 
on  a  young  man  that  came  down  with  me." 

Didn't  I  feel  happy!  we  armed  ourselves 
with  stones  and  very  cautiously  crept  down  the 
staging,  trying  to  whistle  and  look  calm. 

After  all,  we  did  not  see  him. 

Mrs.  Wemyss  and  her  son  called  here  to- 
day. I  must  go  out  either  on  Saturday  or 
Monday,  whichever  day  I  can  get  the  time. 
For  I  am  to  leave  on  Toosda  and  chaperone 
Forma  and  Latta  down;  that's  rather  a  spec, 
isn't  it? 

This  here  letter  has  been  intended  to  be  very 
witty,  very  amusing,  very  romantic,  very  en- 

1  As  the  old  cock,  etc.     "Le  cog  chanter."     [Author's  note.] 

[i6S] 


tertaining  in  general.  The  only  thing  that 
broke  down  was  the  gossip.  I  had  an  awful 
vision  of  parental  brows  in  awful  anger  bent; 
and  parental  lips  saying:  "Put  nothing  in 
black  and  white."  Besides,  what  it  seems  but 
little  malicious  to  say,  seems  perfectly  diaboli- 
cal on  paper  —  the  mean,  low  hits  that  flour- 
ish in  the  bitter  satire  of  the  Satanic  Byron. 
But  isn't  it  true  about  Southey  for  all  that. 
"Immortal  Hero!" — this  is  — ".  .  .  for  ever 
reign  .  .  .  Since  startled  metre  fled  before 
thy  face!" 

I  could  not  write  to ;  her  name  is  so 

hard  to  spell. 

I  remain, 

Ever  your  afft  son, 
R.  L.  Stevenson 

"Parcite,  ab  urbe  venit,  jam  parcite  epis- 
tolae,  Robert."  Another  hexameter  neatly  al- 
tered, if  papa  could  only  scan,  he  would  ad- 
mire it. 

When  your  letter  came  I  said,  "Demme!" 
followin'  my  present  classical  bent. 


[166] 


December  15,  1884. 
My  dear  Mother, — 

Perhaps  the  Milton  is  at  Hyeres ;  I  did  not 
think  so,  but  it  might  be.  It  is  Lang's  Myths 
that  I  want.  The  Henry  Fourth  —  let  'em 
look  in  the  reviews:  I  can't  remember  the 
name,  Wiley  or  something;  but  it  has  been 
reviewed  in  the  Athenaeum,  Saturday,  and 
Academy  of  the  past  three  weeks  or  month. 

Sargent  just  gone;  a  charming,  simple,  clev- 
er, honest  young  man;  he  has  delighted  us. 
It  appears  Gladstone  talks  all  the  time  about 
Treasure  Island',  he  would  do  better  to  attend 
to  the  imperial  affairs  of  England.  We  shall 
tell  you  nothing  of  what  we  think  of  S's  pic- 
ture, for  the  excellent  reason  that  we  prefer  to 
hear  from  you.     It  is  a  lovely  frosty  morning. 

Why  I  have  never  spoken  of  my  father's 
appearances1  I  cannot  think.  I  was  working 
so  very  hard  that  I  had  little  time  to  remember 
anything.  I  thought  both  good;  but  the  ref- 
erence to  Grant  admirable.  I  would  have 
changed  nothing. 

Ever  your  afft.  son, 

R.  L.  S. 

1  As  President  of  the  Royal  Society. 

[.67] 


Bournemouth,  July  31,  1885 
My  dear  people, — 

We  are  having  great  doings.  The  draw- 
ing-room will  soon  be  lovely,  and  we  bank- 
rupt. It  will  be  a  very  quaint,  but  a  very 
pleasing  and  harmonious  room,  and  rich  too; 
and  with  the  picture,  a  Great  Spot  altogether. 
The  tricycle  arrived  here  in  delicate  health, 
and  has  since  boarded  at  the  house  of  a  per- 
fidious tradesman;  when  we  shall  again  be- 
hold it,  the  p.  t.  alone  can  say.  I  am  very 
glad  you  have  Mr.  Bremmer  with  you;  that 
will  be  a  great  comfort;  please  remember  me 
to  him  kindly.  If  I  were  my  mother,  I  should 
draw  it  mild  with  the  Irish  Cars.  I  don't 
believe  they  are  good  for  her  at  all ;  or  at  least 
in  excess.  Did  you  hear  that  I  had  given  way 
to  a  convex  mirror  in  the  dining  room?  It  is 
sublime;  no  picture  can  be  so  decorative  and 
cheerful.  My  mind  shows  symptoms,  I  think, 
of  reawakening;  high  time,  by  George!  Sar- 
gent comes  to  paint  me  again.  Bob,  Louisa, 
Portle,  Lemon  and  Mrs.  Lemon  are  down  at 
Poole,  where  Coggie  goes  today  to  make  room 
for  Henley  for  two  days.     I  am, 

R.  L.  S. 

[168] 


Honolulu,  June,   1889. 
My  dear  Mother, — 

Herewith  goes  a  copy  of  my  first  letter  from 
the  leper  settlement;  my  second,  that  is  to  say 
my  diary,1  is  too  long  to  copy,  as  it  runs  to 
near  forty  pp.  I  can  only  tell  you  briefly  that 
I  was  a  week  in  the  settlement,  hag-ridden  by 
horrid  sights  but  really  inspired  with  the  sight 
of  so  much  goodness  in  the  helpless  and  so 
much  courage  and  unconsciousness  in  the  sick. 
The  Bishop  Home  (the  Sisters'  place)  is  per- 
fect; I  went  there  most  days  to  play  croquet 
with  the  poor  patients — think  of  a  game  of 
croquet  with  seven  little  lepers,  and  the  ther- 
mometer sometimes  ninety  in  the  shade!  I 
rode  there  and  back,  and  used  to  have  a  little 
old  maid  meal  prepared  for  me  alone  by  the 
sisters;  and  though  I  was  often  deadly  tired,  I 
was  never  the  worse.  The  girls  enjoyed  the 
game  a  good  deal,  and  the  honor  and  glory  of 
a   clean  Laole   gentleman  for  playmate  yet 

1  See  page  177  for  Stevenson's  account  of  the  Lazaretto. 

[169] 


more.  They  were  none  of  them  badly  dis- 
figured, but  some  of  the  bystanders  were 
dreadful ;  but  indeed  I  have  seen  sights  to  turn 
any  man's  hair  white.  The  croquet  helped  me 
a  bit,  as  I  felt  I  was  not  quite  doing  nothing; 
Sister  Maryanne  wanted  me  to  sit  down  the 
second  day,  and  only  tell  the  girls;  I  said  "they 
would  not  enjoy  that"  — "Ah,"  said  she,  with  a 
smiling  eye,  "you  say  that,  but  the  truth  is  you 
enjoy  playing  yourself!"  And  so  I  did.  When 
I  came  on  board  the  Mokolii  (little  40- ton 
steamer)  to  leave,  I  had  no  proper  pass  and 
was  refused  entrance.  I  saw  some  very  re- 
markable fire-works,  I  can  tell  you,  for  I  had 
had  enough  and  to  spare  of  the  distressful 
country.  But  it  was  all  made  right;  the  cap- 
tain took  me  ashore  the  same  evening  at  the 
north  end  of  the  island,  gave  me  a  mount,  in- 
troduced me  to  an  innumerable  Irish  family 
where  I  had  supper  and  a  bed,  and  gave  me  a 
horse  and  a  mounted  guide  next  day,  with 
whom  I  rode  twenty  miles  to  Mr.  Meyer's 
house.  The  next  day,  I  had  another  ride,  a 
mighty  rough  drive  over  a  kind  of  road  to  the 
landing  place;  caught  the  Mokolii  again,  and 
was  in  Honolulu  the  morning  after  about  nine, 

[170] 


very  sunburnt  and  rudely  well.  How  is  that 
for  activity  and  rustic  strength? 

Grace  is  not  invariable  but  (I  may  say) 
frequent;  and  when  not  forgotten,  is  (ahem!) 
very  well  said.  Joe,  Lloyd  and  I  are  getting 
up  music;  guitar,  talopatch,  flageolet  and  voice 
for  the  show.  Le  bon  Damien  is  to  give  us  a 
choice  of  his  comic  slides ;  he  has  given  us  al- 
ready a  complete  set  of  the  life  of  Christ;  we 
have  a  fine  magic  lantern.  Foo  goes  with  us. 
He  is  quite  brightened  up  by  the  decision, 
which  was  come  to  in  a  long  talk  under  the 
trees  at  Damien's,  —  D,  Mrs.  D,  and  F  piping 
up  in  Chinese  with  remarkable  lyrical  effects, 
and  I  sitting  by  and  enjoying  the  concert.  Ah 
Foo  is  death  on  Damien;  but  indeed  we  all 
exceedingly  like  him;  he  reminds  us  of  Colvin 
in  many  ways,  which  you  know  is  a  big  word 
for  us.  Joe's  debts  are  getting  thinner ;  Tahiti 
lennade  [?]  is  square,  and  genteel,  but  lan- 
guid. 

The  Comorant  is  gone,  to  our  great  loss; 
they  made  us  a  hammock  ere  they  left,  and 
arranged  for  the  relieving  ship,  the  Espiegle) 
to  make  the  others.  Was  at  a  school  examin- 
ation yesterday  (girls  school)  ;  it  is  a  plain-look- 

[«7i] 


ing  race;  more  pretty  girls  in  the  little  box  at 
Tantira  [?]  than  in  all  this  big  hall;  but  they 
sang,  and  recited,  and  played  the  piano,  like 
any  European  school,  and  for  the  singing  (and 
the  recitation  too)  far  away  better.  Must  dry 
up.     Much  love. 

Ever  afft.  son 

R.  L.  S. 


[172] 


HISTORICAL  SKETCH  OF  THE 
LAZARETTO— 1889 

In  an  editorial  note  in  the  Thistle  Edition, 
prefixed  to  the  letters  of  Stevenson  published 
under  the  title  of  "In  the  South  Seas,"  mention 
is  made  of  his  experiences  at  the  leper  settle- 
ment at  Molokai,  and  the  omission  of  the  nar- 
ration of  these  experiences  is  attributed  to 
Stevenson's  dissatisfaction  with  his  paper  de- 
scribing them.  The  present  sketch  is  presum- 
ably only  the  perfected  portion  and  perhaps 
the  only  part  extant  of  the  longer  piece  of  writ- 
ing left  unused  by  Stevenson,  although  the 
theory  is  tenable  that  this  fragment,  if  already 
seen  by  other  editorial  eyes,  has  not  found  its 
way  previously  into  print  because  under  the 
veil  of  its  artistry  there  lies  a  sensuous  sugges- 
tion not  fully  acceptable  to  finicky  readers. 

Stevenson's  letters  from  the  South  Seas 
(originally  printed  serially  in  partial  form 
in  "Black  and  White,"  and  fully  in  the  New 
York  Sun  in  1891)  record  the  three  voyages  in 
the  vessels  Casco,  Equator  and  Janet  Nicholl, 
from  June  1888,  to  September  1890,  and  cover 
his  adventures  in  various  islands  of  the  eastern 

[173] 


and  western  Pacific.  Of  these  experiences 
none  was  more  poignant  than  the  visit  to  the 
lepers,  and  the  intensity  of  his  interest,  both  in 
those  ill-fated  people  and  in  the  friends  who 
sought  to  be  of  aid  to  them,  found  its  most 
fearless  expression  in  the  famous  letter  in  de- 
fense of  Father  Damien.  Yet  Stevenson's 
sympathy  could  not  blind  him  to  the  fact, 
made  patent  in  the  following  pages,  that 
among  these  doomed  men  and  women  the  nor- 
mal code  of  morals  did  not  obtain.  The  sit- 
uation bears  resemblance  to  that  which  is  said 
to  be  not  unusual  in  a  colony  of  consumptives. 
The  foreknowledge  of  death  tends  in  such 
communities  to  laxity,  to  slackening  of  the 
moral  cord.  And  if  even  in  western  civiliza- 
tion this  disintegration  takes  place,  and  the 
brief  span  of  life  is  devoted  to  such  pleasures 
as  still  are  possible,  how  much  greater  may 
well  be  the  absorption  in  sensual  satisfaction 
among  the  natives  of  the  South  Seas  who  are 
by  training  and  temperament  less  inclined  to 
the  repression  of  the  elementary  emotions. 

Stevenson  approaches  his  theme  "in  cool 
and  reasonable  blood."  He  does  not  hide  his 
initial  horror  at  the  sight  of  the  lepers ;  but  he 

[174] 


is  soon  cheered  by  the  "blessed  conviction" 
that  these  deformed  creatures  had  a  happi- 
ness of  their  own;  and  from  this  point  on  he 
shows,  in  his  brief  paper,  a  very  human  un- 
derstanding of  the  pleasures  of  the  lepers  in 
their  food  and  their  "gambols."  The  episode 
of  the  young  girl  who  accosted  him  in  the  be- 
lief that  he  himself  was  a  leper  is  a  very  tell- 
ing one,  and  Stevenson  takes  satisfaction  in  the 
thought  that  "those  who  would  be  elsewhere 
things  to  frighten  children,  might  here  court 
admiration  and  awaken  desire." 

Apart  from  the  interest  of  the  subject  mat- 
ter, there  is  one  sentence  in  this  sketch  that 
calls  for  special  comment.  "To  many  of  those 
'who  meddle  with  cold  iron'  (in  the  form  of 
pens)  some  design  of  writing  affords  excuse 
sufficient  for  the  most  gross  intrusions;  per- 
haps, less  fortunate,  I  have  never  attained  to 
this  philosophy."  This  is  Stevenson's  rejec- 
tion of  the  theory  of  art  for  art's  sake,  in  its 
absolute  form.  Not  every  theme,  he  here  con- 
tends, is  material  for  the  writer;  or  at  least  if 
the  phrase  "less  fortunate"  establishes  Steven- 
son's unwillingness  to  deny  arguments  of  those 
who  feel  otherwise,  his  sensitive  nature  as  well 

[175] 


as  his  artistic  susceptibilities  are  revealed  as 
reluctant  to  make  style  the  excuse  for  every 

theme. 

G.  S.  H. 


[176] 


HISTORICAL  SKETCH  OF  THE 
LAZARETTO 

From  hearsay  and  eyesight,  I  wish  to  string 
together  a  few  notes  of  the  history  of  this 
melancholy  place.  When  the  Hawaiian  gov- 
ernment embraced  the  plan  of  segregation, 
they  were  doubtless  (as  is  the  way  of  govern- 
ments) unprepared;  and  the  constitution  of 
the  Lazaretto,  as  it  now  exists,  was  approached 
by  blunder  and  reached  by  accident. 

It  would  be  easy  in  this  place  to  gratify  the 
curiosity  of  readers,  to  saw  on  the  sentimental 
cord,  and  heap  up  moving  detail.  To  repro- 
duce my  diary  as  it  stands  would  perhaps  best 
serve  my  interest  and  the  public  taste.  But 
the  question  of  the  Lazaretto  is  one  on  which 
sentiment  must  be  discouraged;  which  should 
be  approached  in  cool  and  reasonable  blood. 
If  there  are  lepers,  if  leprosy  be  showing  (as 
begins  to  seem  admissible)  renewed  powers  of 
attack,  it  is  time  other  powers  followed  the  ex- 
ample of  Hawaii;  it  is  time  one  and  all  made 
ready  to  war  on  the  renovated  enemy;  it  is 
time  we  were  done  with  bleating  and  shudder- 
ing. I  own  here  that  I  have  shuddered  often ; 
my  flesh  was  impressionable;  all  my  life  de- 

[i77l 


formity  and  living  decay  have  haunted  me  like 
nightmares;  when  I  saw,  lying  athwart  the 
sunrise,  the  leper  promontory  and  the  bare 
town  of  Kalaupapa,  when  the  first  boat  set  out 
laden  with  patients,  when  it  was  my  turn  to 
follow  in  the  second,  seated  by  two  sisters  on 
the  way  to  their  becuring  labours,  when  we 
drew  near  the  landing  stairs,  and  saw  them 
crowded  with  the  sick  and  the  unsightly,  I 
take  no  shame  to  myself,  but  I  will  not  con- 
ceal that  weakness,  horror  and  cowardice 
worked  in  the  marrow  of  my  bones.1  The 
coming  of  the  new  sisters  had  attracted  an 

1  Mrs.  Stevenson  wrote:  "He  talked  very  little  to  us  of  the 
tragedy  of  Molokai,  though  I  could  see  it  lay  heavy  upon  his 
spirits."  —  "It  did  not  occur  to  him  it  would  be  necessary  to 
get  a  separate  official  permission  to  leave  Molokai ;  hence  he 
was  nearly  left  behind  when  the  vessel  sailed  out.  He  only 
saved  himself  by  a  prodigious  leap  which  landed  him  on 
board  the  boat  whence  nothing  but  force  could  dislodge  him. 
By  the  doctor's  orders  he  took  gloves  to  wear  as  a  precaution- 
ary measure  against  contagion,  but  they  were  never  worn.  At 
first  he  avoided  shaking  hands,  but  when  he  played  croquet 
with  the  young  leper  girls  he  would  not  listen  to  the  Mother 
Superior's  warning  that  he  must  wear  gloves.     He  thought  it 

might  remind  them  of  their  condition One  of  the 

first  things  he  did  on  his  return  to  Honolulu  was  to  send 
Mother  Mary  Ann,  the  Mother  Superior,  a  grand  piano  for  the 
use  of  her  girls  —  the  girls  with  whom  he  had  played  croquet. 
He  also  sent  toys,  sewing  materials,  small  tools  for  the  younger 
children,  and  other  things  that  I  have  forgotten.  After  his 
death  a  letter  was  found  among  his  papers,  of  which  I  have 
only  the  last  few  lines:  'I  cannot  suppose  you  remember  me, 
but  I  won't  forget  you,  nor  God  won't  forget  you  for  your 
kindness  to  the  blind  white  leper  at  Molokai.'  " 

[■78] 


unusual  attendance,  in  the  midst  of  which  I 
felt  myself  a  stranger.  To  many  of  those 
"who  meddle  with  cold  iron"  (in  the  form  of 
pens)  some  design  of  writing  affords  excuse 
sufficient  for  the  most  gross  intrusions:  per- 
haps less  fortunate,  I  have  never  attained  to 
this  philosophy;  and  I  fled  from  the  scene  of 
welcome,  and  set  forth  on  foot  for  Kalawao. 
Belated  lepers  were  coming  up  continually 
on  horseback;  others  sat  in  their  doorways; 
with  those  I  exchanged  salutations ;  with  these 
I  occasionally  stopped  and  fell  in  talk.  I 
had  not  been  long  upon  the  way  before  there 
stole  into  my  heart  a  blessed  conviction —  that 
these  creatures,  however  deformed,  however 
close  on  death,  were  happy;  and  before  I  had 
met  Mr.  Hutchinson  bringing  me  a  horse,  the 
blackness  had  been  quite  lifted  from  my  spirit. 
I  will  tell  but  the  one  incident;  infinitely  lit- 
tle—  but  which  struck  me  particularly  at  the 
time.  It  was  still  quite  early  morning,  as  I 
went  with  my  bundles  up  the  road;  the  air 
was  cool,  the  level  sunbeams  struck  overhead 
on  the  foli,  the  birds  were  piping  in  the  cliff- 
side  woods.  Along  either  side  of  the  way, 
scattered  houses  stood  nakedly  on  the  green 

[179] 


down;  and  to  the  porch  of  one  I  was  sum- 
moned by  a  woman.  She  knew  English ;  she 
was  comely  in  face  and  person;  of  engaging 
manners ;  and  spoke  with  an  affectionate  gen- 
tleness. It  leaked  out  in  the  course  of  talk 
that  she  thought  I  was  the  new  white  patient; 
and  when  I  had  corrected  the  mistake,  she 
sought  not  to  conceal  her  disappointment.  I 
went  on  again  surprised;  she  had  thought  I 
was  a  leper,  doomed  (like  herself)  to  spend 
my  few  last  of  days  in  that  seclusion ;  and  when 
she  found  she  was  deceived,  her  only  thought 
was  of  regret.  In  view  of  my  thoughts  of 
leprosy,  in  view  of  the  mountain  outlaws,  of 
the  scene  so  recently  inscribed  upon  my  mem- 
ory on  the  beach  at  Hookena,  it  was  hard  to 
understand  her  attitude.  But  it  is  the  atti- 
tude (so  far  as  I  was  able  to  observe)  of 
Kalawao. 

The  history  of  all  institutions  is  a  Tale  of 
mistakes.  They  are  born  immature;  among 
progressive  peoples,  before  one  part  be  per- 
fected, another  will  begin  to  grow  obsolete; 
and  the  radical,  as  we  name  the  hunter  of 
consummation  in  these  fields,  is  apt  to  be  a 
man  without  historic  sense.     Of  the  futility 

[180] 


of  design,  the  story  of  the  Lazaretto  affords 
a  curious  instance.  Nothing  appears  more 
culpable  than  that  series  of  negligence  by 
which  the  lepers  were  reduced  to  pauperism; 
perhaps  nothing  was  more  fortunate.  The 
wildest  settle  down  contented  to  this  life  of 
parasites.  No  work,  and  regular  rations; 
these  are  the  attractions,  these  the  dulcia  leni- 
mina,  of  Kalawao.  I  heard  two  men  discuss- 
ing an  escape;  one  was  an  official.  "Ah," 
cried  he,  referring  to  the  fugitive,  "he  had 
not  been  long  here!"  And  such  I  believe  is 
the  fact  at  least  with  natives;  if  they  seek  to 
escape  at  all,  it  is  while  they  are  new  caught. 
Still  more  singular  is  the  attitude  of  the  clean 
Kokuas.  These,  who  are  usually  connections 
of  the  sick,  allowed  to  accompany  their  wives, 
husbands,  or  children,  are  the  working  bees 
of  the  sad  hive;  the  laborers,  butchers,  store- 
keepers, nurses  and  grave  diggers,  in  that 
place  of  melancholy,  and  folded  hands.  The 
surroundings,  the  few  toilers,  looked  upon 
by  so  many  delivered  from  all  touch  of  need  — 
the  frequency  of  death,  the  brevity  of  pros- 
pect, the  consequent  estimation  of  the  moment, 
might  perhaps,  even  on  the  most  stalwart  of 

[181] 


our  northern  races,  work  some  influence  of 
disenchantment.  In  the  Kokuas,  the  result 
appears  to  be  unmingled  envy  of  a  better  state. 
Dr.  Swift  had  once  in  his  hand  a  lancet  charg- 
ed with  the  virus  of  leprosy.  "Come  here," 
he  cried,  in  somewhat  appalling  pleasantry, 
to  one  of  the  Kokuas.  "Come  here,  and  I  will 
make  a  leper  of  you."  The  man  advanced, 
rolling  up  his  sleeve  as  he  came.  He  was  en- 
tirely serious;  nor  was  he  at  all  singular  in 
this  readiness.  Paris  valait  bien  une  messe; 
and  rations  are  worth  leprosy. 

Within  the  precinct,  it  must  be  remember- 
ed, to  be  leprous  is  the  rule.  The  disease  no 
longer  awakens  pity,  nor  do  its  deformities 
move  shame  in  the  patient  or  disgust  in  the 
beholder.  The  girl  at  Hookena,  a  leper  at 
large  amongst  the  clean,  held  down  her  face; 
I  was  glad  to  find  she  would  soon  walk  with 
head  erect  among  her  fellows,  and  perhaps  be 
attended  as  a  beauty. 

To  the  point;  I  was  riding  late  one  after- 
noon from  Kalaupapa,  and  saw  far  in  front  of 
me,  on  the  downward  slope  that  leads  to  Kal- 
awano,  a  group  of  natives  returning  from 
some  junket.     They  wore  their  many  colored 

[182] 


Sunday's  best,  bright  wreathes  of  flowers  in 
the  Hawaiian  fashion  around  their  necks; 
the  trade  wind  brought  me  strains  of  song  and 
laughter;  and  I  saw  them  gambol  as  they 
came,  and  the  men  and  women  chase  and 
change  places  with  each  other  by  the  way. 
It  made,  from  a  distance,  an  engaging  picture; 
I  had  near  forgot  in  what  distressful  country 
my  road  lay;  a  little  nearer,  I  saw  that  two  of 
them  —  and  not  the  least  adorned — were  in- 
humanly defaced.  The  standard  had  fallen 
with  the  circumstance ;  and  those  who  would 
be  elsewhere  things  to  frighten  children, 
might  here  court  admiration  and  awaken  de- 
sire. 

Steamer  Janet  Nicholl1 
My  dear  Mother,  — 

The  lively  Jane  as  she  is  called  by  those 
who  know  her  is  just  illustrating  her  skittish- 
ness,  and  my  hand  of  write  suffers  in  conse- 
quence. We  have  a  most  agreeable  ship's 
company;  the  start  has  stopped  my  lung  sym- 
toms  almost  entirely,  but  I  have  had  as  yet  no 
change  of  climate,  as  we  are  going  to  Auck- 

1  In  the  margin  of  the  letter  is  written,  "Auckland,  April  1890," 
in  another  handwriting. 

[183] 


land,  and  tonight  it  rains  and  blows,  and  the 
Janet  Janetises;  you  never  saw  so  quick  a  rol- 
ler. I  am  beginning  this  under  these  unto- 
ward circumstances  to  have  it  ready  for  Auck- 
land; and  I  can  only  hope  the  pencil  may  re- 
main legible.  The  party  is  the  captain,  a  very 
mild  German;  Henderson,  a  very  nice  fellow 
like  Chandler  whom  we  met  on  the  Ludgate 
Hill,  but  he  may  leave  us  at  Auckland;  Stod- 
dard, engineer,  frae  Glesgie;  Heard,  super- 
cargo, frae  Aiberdeen;  Jack  Buckland,  a 
strange  Sydney  T.  .fite  and  (at  the  same  time, 
or  rather  in  alternate  layers)  Gilbert  Island 
Beachcomber,  admirably  good-looking  and 
really  nice  in  his  way;  indeed  the  whole  lot  is 
first  rate.  On  the  back  I  am  going  to  give  you 
a  plan  of  some  of  the  ship,  which  of  course 
(near  500  tons)  is  a  mighty  fine  affair  for  the 
likes  of  us;  or  would  be,  if  she  could  be  in- 
duced to  stop  rolling  and  wallowing  like  a 
drunken  tub.  The  o's  are  dead  lights.  1 
main  cabin.  2.  our  stateroom.  3.  Lloyd  and 
Buckland.  4.  Henderson.  5.  Heard.  6.  W.  C. 
7.  Companion.  The  main  cabin  is  15  feet 
long,  7  ft.  headroom.  Above  the  cabin  is  a 
spar  deck  and  above  that  again  the  bridge; 

[184] 


abaft  the  cabins  are  the  galley  and  the  en- 
gines. It  is  very  pleasant  to  have  the  engines 
behind ;  but  there  is  no  use  in  trying  to  blink 
the  fact  that  the  Janet  is  a  pig.  I  never  saw 
such  a  roller.  Again,  last  night  since  I  began 
to  write,  I  was  nearly  thrown  out  of  my  bunk, 
and  so  was  Buckland;  and  eating  is  a  toil  and 
trial.  Our  route  is  Savage,  Semaroff(P), 
Wauihiki,  Penrhyn(P),  Christmas,  Danger 
Islands,  Tokalaus,  Ellias,  Gilberts,  Marshalls; 
and  afterwards  we  are  in  doubt.  You  can 
look  'em  up  on  the  map.  Xmas  is  doubtful, 
but  possible;  the  others  named  (bar  accident) 
certain;  you  see  what  a  space  we  are  to  cover, 
though  it's  all  low  islands  again.  I  shall  know 
something  of  the  Pacific  now.  I  am,  dear 
mother, 

Ever  your  afft.  son, 

R.  L.  S. 

Schooner  Equator,  at  sea 
240  miles  from  Samoa, 
Sunday,  Dec.  1st,  1889. 
My  dear  Mother, — 

We  are  drawing  (we  fondly  hope)  to  the 
close  of  another  voyage  like  that  from  Tahiti 


to  Hawaii;  we  sailed  from  Butaritari  on  the 
4th  November,  and  since  then  have  lain  be- 
calmed under  cataracts  of  rain,  or  kicked 
about  in  purposeless  squalls.  We  were  six- 
teen souls  in  this  small  schooner,  eleven  in  the 
cabin;  our  confinement  and  overcrowding  in 
the  wet  weather  was  excessive;  we  lost  our 
foretopmast  in  a  squall;  the  sails  were  contin- 
ually being  patched  (we  had  but  the  one 
suit)  and  with  all  attention  we  lost  the 
jibtopsail  almost  entirely  and  the  staysail 
and  mainsail  are  far  through.  To  com- 
plete the  discomfort,  we  have  carried  a 
very  mild  weatherglass;  a  daily  fall  of  15- 
hundredths  in  four  hours,  followed  by  a  cor- 
responding rise,  and  on  one  occasion  accom- 
panied by  the  fall  of  the  thermometer  to  79° 
at  noon,  kept  us  on  the  qui-vive.  I  wonder 
are  you  already  so  far  out  of  key  with  the 
South  Seas,  that  79°  at  noon  will  seem  warm 
to  you?  You  should  have  seen  the  great  coats 
out!  I  myself  wore  two  wool  undershirts,  a 
knitted  waistcoat — the  gift  of  the  King  of 
Apemama  —  and  a  flannel  blazer;  and  I  was 
seriously  thinking  of  a  flannel  shirt,  when 
the  cold  let  up.     My  birthday  was  a  great 

[186] 


event;  Mr.  Rich,  the  agent  of  the  firm  at  Bu- 
taritari,  who  makes  on  this  trip  one  of  the 
eleven  beings  in  the  cabin,  had  his  on  the 
twelfth ;  so  we  had  two  days  festivity, —  cham- 
pagne, music,  the  capture  of  sharks,  dolphins 
and  skipjack  —  mighty  welcome  additions  to 
our  table.  Ah  Fu  (at  my  elbow  in  the  trade- 
room  door)  begs  me  to  add  that  the  little  land 
birds  joined  the  ship  and  stayed  some  twenty 
hours.  The  log  says:  "13th,  throughout  this 
day  dead  calm  with  heavy  rain;  sometimes 
very  light  westerly  airs;  and  very  strong 
easterly  current."  Of  course  we  had  no  ob- 
servation, but  our  position  next  day  was  1790 
35'  E,  6°  58'  N,  which  could  not  be  far  out, 
as  that  was  a  calm  also.  On  the  evening  of 
my  birthday,  all  hands  came  in  the  cabin  to 
make  me  a  compliment;  the  long  American 
sailor  (called  The  Fisherman's  Child,  after  a 
doleful  ditty  that  he  sings)  was  at  the  wheel; 
compared,  Ta  Toma,  tall  powerful  Hawaiian, 
about  twenty;  Teu  Tau,  Apaiang  islander, 
perhaps  13;  Charlie  Selth,  San  Franciscan,  of 
Scotch  origin,  and  very  like  our  Agnes,  15; 
La,  Honolulu  stowaway,  perhaps  13;  Georgie 
(called  George  Muggery  Bowyer,  Esq.)  Ha- 

[187] 


waiian,  the  ship's  infant,  age,  perhaps  9  —  his 
little  jacket  shrunk  almost  up  to  his  nipples, 
his  little  breeches  (once  they  were  trousers) 
leaving  bare  his  knees  below  and  a  part  of  his 
hips  above;  how  they  staid  on,  nobody  can 
guess.  Both  marines  of  the  after  guard  were 
at  table,  Fanny,  Lloyd,  Joe  and  I;  Captain 
Denis  Reid,  Greenock,  25,  Adolf  Rick,  Gal- 
lician,  born  in  Prussia,  43 ;  Paul  Leonard,  28, 
Prussian,  known  as  the  Passenger  to  Waiiki 
—  towards  which  island,  like  a  will  o'  the  wisp, 
he  has  been  sailing  in  this  Equator  for  nine 
weeks,  and  will  sail  at  least  half  as  many  more, 
and  yet  he  has  twice  sighted  it,  and  then  the 
wind  failed,  the  westerly  current  took  charge, 
and  farewell  Waiiki!  Tom  Thomson,  but 
his  name  is  Ole  Somethingson,  Norwegian, 
our  mate,  the  tavern  keeper  on  Waiiki,  thirty. 
In  the  background,  our  cook  and  steward  the 
great  Ah  Fu,  Sana  [?]  China,  and  Murray 
Macallum,  son  of  a  Freekirk  minister  on  the 
Clyde  —  Mr.  Swan  has  been  in  his  father's 
house  —  aged  maybe  20.  To  this  congrega- 
tion, in  the  small,  lamplighted,  tossing  cabin, 
nine  feet  square,  with  the  compass  and  the 
binnacle  lantern  inside  on  a  bracket  on  the  af- 

[188] 


ter  bulkhead,  and  the  steersman  looking  down 
at  us  through  an  eye-shaped  aperture,  like  a 
narrow-loophole  —  add  the  incessant  uproar  of 
the  tropic  rain,  the  dripping  leaks,  the  slush 
on  the  floor,  and  the  general  sense  that  we  were 
nowhere  in  particular  and  drifting  anywhere 
at  large;  and  there  is  my  39th  birthday! 
Charlie  Selth  was  the  spokesman  of  the  crew, 
and  made  a  neat  little  speech  of  a  sentence, 
and  you  should  have  seen  the  row  of  brown 
faces,  tailing  down  from  Tatoma  to  George. 
Georgie  comes  aft  every  morning  to  get  from 
the  Captain  his  "Boia"  —  a  thrashing;  it  is 
quite  solemnly  gone  through  on  both  sides,  and 
I  must  candidly  declare  is  the  only  duty  the 
child  has,  or  at  least  attends  to.  From  this 
word,  his  family  name  of  Bowyer  has  been 
deduced  by  the  Heralds  of  the  Equator]  the 
middle  name  "Muggery"  is  (something  like) 
a  native  word;  and  the  whole  thing  gives  very 
much  the  effect  of  an  heir  to  a  baronetcy. 
We  had  a  fine  alert  once;  a  p.  d.  reef  ahead 

—  three  positions  indicated,  our  own  disputed 

—  a  very  heavy  sea  running —  the  boats  cleared 
and  supplied  with  bread  and  water,  our  little 
packets  made  (medicines,  papers,  and  woollen 

[189] 


clothes)  and  the  poor  passenger  for  Waiiki 
trying  rather  ruefully  to  insure  his  little  all 
which  was  on  board.  It  was  rather  fine  going 
to  bed  that  night;  though,  had  we  struck  the 
reef,  the  boat  voyage  of  four  or  five  hundred 
miles  would  have  been  no  joke. 

Fanny  has  stood  the  hardships  of  this  rough 
cruise  wonderfully;  but  I  do  not  think  I  could 
enforce  her  to  another  of  the  same.  I've  been 
first  rate,  though  I  am  now  done  for  lack  of 
green  food.  Joe  is,  I  fear,  really  ill;  and 
Lloyd  has  bad  sores  in  his  leg.  We  shall  send 
Joe  on  to  Sydney  by  the  first  steamer;  and 
Lloyd,  Fanny  and  I  shall  stay  on  awhile  (time 
quite  vague)  in  Samoa.  Write  to  Sydney. 
We  shall  turn  up  in  England  by  May  or  June. 
Ever  your  afft.  son, 

R.  L.  S. 


[190] 


PRAYERS  AT  VAILI MA— 1890- 1894 

In  the  volume  of  Miscellanies,  published 
(Edinburgh  Edition,  Volume  4)  after  Stev- 
enson's death,  fourteen  of  the  prayers — gen- 
erally very  brief  —  composed  by  him  for  his 
household  at  Vailima,  testify  to  the  decided 
change  from  the  early  Edinburgh  days  when 
he  chafed  under  the  religious  atmosphere  that 
hung  upon  him  in  his  father's  home.  The 
two  additional  prayers  here  are  in  the  same 
vein  as  others  with  which  Stevensonians  are 
familiar.  The  confession  of  weakness  and  the 
inclination  toward  kindness  are  the  two  notes 
that  ring  truest  throughout  most  of  Sevenson's 
prayers. 

Above  the  first  one  of  the  two  here  printed, 
Stevenson  has  written :  "For  family  prayer ;" 
and  the  word  "family"  has  not  simply  the  us- 
ual connotation,  but  includes  those  Samoan 
children  —  in  this  instance  all  boys  —  who,  ac- 
cording to  the  custom  of  the  island,  were 
adopted  by  missionaries  or  European  "chiefs," 
interested  in  educating  the  natives.  In  his  ca- 
pacity as  the  temporary  "father"  of  the  chil- 
dren of  Samoan  chiefs,  the  head  of  a  little 
clan,  Stevenson  realized  the  necessity  of  seek- 

[191] 


ing  to  be  an  exemplar  in  religious  as  well  as 
domestic  duties ;  and  though  at  times  he  failed 
in  a  strict  observance  of  the  Sabbath,  he  was 
consistently  a  leader  in  those  brief  family 
prayers,  the  utterance  of  which  gave  all  the 
more  pleasure  to  him  because  they  brought 
such  deep  satisfaction  to  his  religiously  inclin- 
ed mother  who  was  then  living  under  his  roof. 

G.  S.  H. 


[  192] 


2 


1    !    &> 


Vy^^- 


£A\*AaAO 


1  Vn^-C>^*- 


\ 


W^A^t-~ 


'\A^A    ^   s      ^     £J^         La-;  (^ 


1    I 


-W-, 


TU1 


\  i 


r-^XJ 


^-^ft.  * 


\  I 


PRAYERS  AT  VAILIMA 

I 

O  God,  who  throughout  life  hast  pursued 
us  with  thy  mercies  and  thy  judgments,  and  in 
love  and  anger  led  us  daily  forward,  as  thou 
hast  not  been  weary  in  the  past,  be  not  weary 
yet  awhile.  Pardon  our  dull  spirits,  and 
whether  with  mercy  or  with  judgment,  call  us 
up  from  slumber. 

For  as  we  kneel  together,  in  this  cruel  state, 
weak  folk,  with  many  weaker  depending  on 
our  help,  sinful  folk,  with  the  whole  earth 
ministering  temptations,  we  would  desire  to 
remember  equally  our  need  and  thy  power. 
Save  us,  O  Lord,  from  ourselves.  The  prayer 
that-we  lifelessly  repeat,  hear,  Lord,  and  make 
it  live,  and  answer  it  in  mercy. 

Let  us  not  judge  amiss,  let  us  not  speak  with 
cruelty;  our  kindness  to  others,  suffer  it  not  to 
weary.  May  we  grow  merciful  by  tribula- 
tions, liberal  by  mercies.  Thou  who  sendest 
thy  rain  upon  the  just  and  the  unjust,  help  us 
to  pardon,  help  us  to  love,  our  fellow-sinners. 


[i93] 


II 

O  God,  who  hast  brought  us  to  the  end  of 
another  day,  of  use  or  of  uselessness,  pardon, 
as  is  thy  wont,  the  manifold  sins  and  short- 
comings of  our  practise,  the  discontent  and 
envy  of  our  thoughts;  enable  us  this  night  to 
enjoy  the  repose  of  slumber  and  waken  us 
again  tomorrow,  with  better  thoughts  and  a 
greater  courage,  to  resume  the  task  of  life. 
Bless  to  us  the  pleasures,  bless  to  us  the  pains 
of  our  existence.  Suffer  us  not  to  forget  the 
bonds  of  our  humanity;  give  us  strength,  give 
us  the  spirit  of  mercy,  give  us  the  power  to 
endure.  Leave  us  not  indifferent,  O  God,  but 
pierce  our  hearts  to  resolve  and  enable  our 
hands  to  perform,  as  before  thy  face  in  the 
sight  of  the  eternal.  Watch  upon  our  eyes, 
ears,  thoughts,  tongues  and  hands,  that  we  may 
neither  think  unkindly,  speak  unwisely  or  act 
unrighteously. 

Guide  us,  thou  who  didst  guide  our  fathers; 
and  upon  this  day  more  especially  set  apart  for 
prayer,  receive  our  penitent  and  grateful 
thoughts;  and  hear  us,  when  we  pray  for  oth- 
ers and  ourselves;  that  they  may  be  blessed 
and  we  be  helpful;  and  give  us,  beyond  our 

[194] 


C-UV-*-~*  CyQ   ^* 


I  \  I 


UuJCa    M    AJU*V>***^ 


I— Jv^ 


w^s  M*/J^vX  ^yUJi  «Jb^#^JC  t 


1   \ 


■ 


\-i-N.  w«k  v^  fcr 


„     v>~ 


.%mK  J3i  j.t>^4<&  m  ******  W--        JO  k  *— 


■ 


"—   ^V^k        I    t-N.      U,      li        \m  -Li 


lv~o   (^vf  U.       y-U  w^v 


^^ — * 


deserts  to  receive,  beyond  our  imaginations  to 
expect,  the  grace  to  die  daily  to  our  evil,  and 
to  live  ever  the  more  and  ever  the  more  wholly 
to  Thee  and  to  our  fellow-sufferers. 

Hear  us  for  His  sake,  in  whose  name  we 
would  further  say:  [Here  he  doubtless  in- 
tended to  repeat  the  Lord's  Prayer.] 


['95] 


